


Wheel of Fortune (Act V)

by QSF



Series: As We Fall [5]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-19 12:12:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 84,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1469254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QSF/pseuds/QSF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke and Anders find themselves back in the south, settling in as leaders of the revolution. Dodging old friends and older enemies, can they stay ahead of their inevitable end long enough to make a difference?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes reality gave you a hard gut-punch and walked away, leaving you gasping for air in the dirt. It wasn’t much of a beginning of a story, Hawke realized, but it would be an even worse ending to one. Varric would be displeased.  
  
 _"You have got to get a feeling for these things now, Hawke,"_  the imaginary dwarf chided him. _"You are a story now, and stories just don’t end, they grow with each telling."_  
  
"I’m not good at telling stories," Hawke replied. "You should do it. You should be here."  
  
 _"But I’m not. You got me involved Hawke, involved in things I wanted to stay out of." Even as an imaginary specter Varric managed to be disapproving._  
  
"I’m sorry about that," Hawke sighed. "But you didn’t have to give me a beard in return. Or make me that pretty, or, Maker’s breath, I swear that in some of these stories I’m even a woman."  
  
 _"Some people like that,"_  Varric laughed inside his head,  _"makes it all the more romantic. Defeating the Arishok, romancing Anders… or Fenris, or Isabela… or Maker forbid, even Merrill."_  
  
"What are you talking about? I think I might have a concussion." Hawke tried to shift, but his limbs felt heavy and his head ached.  
  
 _"My gift to you. Your story. You don’t see it yet Hawke, but you will. The Champion of Kirkwall. You’re whatever people need now, a noble warrior, a powerful mage, and sometimes, yes sometimes I admit, even a shifty rogue treading waters too deep for him."_  
  
"I can’t even swim. And I still have no idea what you are talking about." Were there chains around his wrists? Yes, yes there were.  
  
 _"Better learn then,"_  the imaginary dwarf winked.  _"And tell me Hawke, what did Andraste look like anyway?"_  
  
"I… have no idea." Hawke tried to remember icons and pictures. "Red hair I think. Long."  
  
 _"That is because you’re from Ferelden, where people have long, red hair. In Orlais she is blonde with lustrous shiny waves; elsewhere she has raven black locks and skin the hue of walnuts. People see what they need to see, and the story changes accordingly."_  
  
"It was ages ago," the rogue protested. He should open his eyes, but he was afraid Varric would be gone then, and he’d be knee deep in shit. As per usual.  
  
 _"Can you tell me what the founder of your own country looked like then? Calenhad Theirin? Or, Maker’s breath but you are dumb sometimes Hawke, what was the name of your king… Cailin Theirin? You even saw him once, didn’t you?"_  
  
"Once. On the eve of battle. He had shiny armor and… long hair. Blonde. I think. I’m not sure." He wasn’t sure of anything right now. Was he dreaming? Probably.  
  
 _"You see? That is all most people know of you. And for everyone that actually did meet you, there are a dozen that claim that they did. And that is why you sometimes have a beard. Or boobs."_  Varric seemed mightily amused at the last.  
  
"Because a beard represents authority," Hawke groaned, starting to wake up.  
  
 _"Or maybe because in their mind, real men have beards. Some humans are funny that way, like dwarves."_  
  
"Do you think I should grow one?" Hawke asked, fighting to open his eyes.  
  
 _"I think you should wake up."_  
  
"I don’t want to."  
  
 _"Sorry, Hawke, this is not a story yet. This time you have no choice."_  
  
…  
  
"Hawke?" Anders’ voice, sounding worried.   
  
"mmmhm…" Hawke groaned in return, finally opening his eyes. He immediately wished he hadn’t. The light sent sharp daggers of pain through his aching head; the sun was a cruel mistress for the concussioned.  
  
"Thank the Maker," the mage sighed, shifting a bit where he was sitting on the ground. Chained as well. "You were mumbling to yourself, I thought the spell might have addled you. It happens sometimes."  
  
"Wasn’t a spell that gave me the bump on the back of my head," Hawke mumbled. Shifting to a sitting position was hard, his hands were manacled, as were his feet, and a length of chain connected the two making any movement but a hobble hard to manage. Not that he had anywhere to hobble to, they were sitting in a small forest clearing, surrounded by trees on all sides, the autumn sun basking down on them.  
  
"Ah, well, that would have been one of the Templars I suppose," Anders said with a sigh. "They like hitting things on the head. Even when they don’t need to." He said the last words loudly, causing one of the men guarding them to sigh, as if he had heard it all before.  
  
He was a young man, hardly over twenty, with a stubbly beard and heavy armor, devoid of any identifying markings. But he had the bearing of a Templar.  
  
"I am Karsten, and I am no longer a Templar," the young man explained with a tired expression on his face. "And I already apologized for hitting him that hard. We just could not take any risks with the Champion."   
  
"You didn’t apologize for hitting me," Anders said, nearly pouting. He was chained up much the same as Hawke, and didn’t look happy for it.  
  
"I did not apologize for that because a blow to the head is the least you deserve." Karsten’s voice had gone hard, "If it was up to me you would be dead for what you done, but… it is not."   
  
"Lucky for you," Hawke mumbled to the young man, trying to keep his eyes focused. "Saved your life."  
  
"Listen to me… Templar." Ander’s voice was filled with enough vitriol that Hawke realized where Justice had got his Templar aversion from. "He has a concussion. A bad one. If he loses consciousness again he might slip into a coma. He needs to be healed. I swear, I won’t run, just loosen these chains long enough for me to help him."  
  
"No," the young man replied, but with a bit of a worried glance at Hawke. "My companions will be back with the wagon shortly. They can heal him then. And I am not a Templar."  
  
"I’m alright," Hawke mumbled, trying to figure out what was going on, but his thoughts shuffled through mud, leading him nowhere.  
  
"No, you are not," Anders sighed. "But try to stay awake. Keep talking to me. Don’t fall asleep." His voice was thick with tension.  
  
"I thought these people were supposed to be your friends," the rogue muttered, head hanging.  
  
"So I thought," Anders sighed. "The mage underground spoke of a haven in the Brecilian Forest. I did not think the Templars had already found it."  
  
"They have not." A new voice interrupted, the pale-haired elf slipping out of the forest like a shadow. "But that doesn’t mean you are amongst friends, human."  
  
"Velanna?" Anders sounded as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. "Andraste’s furry knickers, it is you!"  
  
"Your powers of observation are as sharp as always I see," she replied coolly, touching the tip of her staff to the ground. Around the elven mage, the trees started inching back, leaving enough room for a small wagon to push through.   
  
"You know me, always on top of things," Anders replied, something like relief in his voice. "Well, since I don’t think you’d be siding with the Chantry, I suppose I will have to take the word of tall dark and stubbly over there that he’s actually not a Templar."  
  
"Do you two know each other?" Hawke managed to ask, though the creaking of the wagon wheels made him feel sick.  
  
"Unfortunately," Velanna replied with a grimace.  
  
"She’s a Grey Warden," Anders filled in. "Or a ghost. But she’s scowling too much for a ghost. I thought you were dead? They say a wall collapsed on you during the siege of Vigil’s Keep."   
  
"You humans say so many things," she shrugged. "Do not look to me to make sense of your stories."  
  
"Hah, I knew it," Anders grinned. "You did run away. I thought you might have. Tried to talk your clan into taking you back?"  
  
"No," she snapped harshly. "Where I went and what I did are none of your business human." The last bit was spat out with sudden vehemence.  
  
"I’m glad to see she doesn’t just do that to me," the former Templar mumbled, leaning down to help Hawke to his feet.  
  
"She’s a mage," the rogue mumbled back, while Anders and Velanna had begun arguing over past events neither of the others knew or cared about. "And you’re a Templar."  
  
"I’m not," Karsten said, with the patience of someone far too used to explaining himself. "I was. But many of us serving in the Fereldan Circle choose to join the mages when they left after the events in Kirkwall. We are all the Maker’s children, despite what the Chantry is teaching these days."  
  
"The mages were allowed to leave?" Hawke winced as more hands reached down and helped him up on the wagon. "Then why capture us? We’re on your side."  
  
"The view on magic in Ferelden is different after a mage slew the Archdemon and saved us all from the Blight, but…" the young man helped the others ease Hawke down in a somewhat comfortable position "…there are a lot of people that holds issue with what your companion did. A lot of people that thinks he should pay for his crime."  
  
"You among them I bet," Hawke muttered as cool fingertips caressed his temples from behind, gentle waves of healing chasing off the nausea and pain.  
  
"Yes. But he will get a fair hearing, and then the Circle will vote on what should be done. Until then, we take no risks. You both stay in chains."  
  
"Fine…" Hawke muttered, drowsiness overtaking him as the fingers teased both injury and consciousness from his grasp. "But if you touch him… I’ll…" he never got to finish the sentence before falling asleep, but he hoped the sentiment was taken to heart.  
  
…  
  
Hawke had to admit, that whatever this place was, it was impressive. The ruins had a distinctly Tevinter flair to them, the same grand, mad scale and columns, but tempered by what almost seemed to be an elven elegance. They had been cleaned and made fit for habitation, but no attempts had been made to repair the broken walls, or the haunted-looking statues that lined the archways of the room. It left the place with a certain desolate elegance; he only wished he had been in a better position to have a look around. This place begged to be explored.  
  
But they were still in chains. Or rather, he was. Anders was free. Or, well, as free as one could be when standing in the middle of an assembly of mages staring down at him from the surrounding seats. Had this been an audience hall once upon a time? An arena? A temple? Hawke wasn’t sure; he just kept silent, and tried to unobtrusively fiddle with the locks on his chains. These people had really no idea what he was; they seemed to have bought into Varric’s whole noble warrior idea. Suckers.  
  
But even if he did break free it wasn’t like he could do anything. Would do anything. From the look that Anders had given him earlier, this was a gamble that the mage had to take. Something that needed to be done. He needed allies; he needed for these people to understand why he had done what he had done. They had agreed to seek the mages out because they had no choice. Even if it meant that Anders might… Maker’s breath, he had no idea how the healer could stand there so calmly. These people didn’t love him, didn’t know him and certainly hadn’t spent months coming to terms with what had happened. They could both die here; even though Hawke hadn’t felt his own life being threatened, if they turned on Anders he couldn’t just stand there watching it happened. Even if they had no chance. The power in this room was suffocating.  
  
"Am I here to be judged then?" Anders asked nonchalantly once the mages had settled down. Even without his staff, he looked less a criminal than the accuser.  
  
"No," one of the older mages said, wisps of gray hair still clinging to his balding head. "You are here to be heard."  
  
"Funny, Ravan, it feels a lot like a court to me." Anders swept with a hand over the assembled mages.   
  
"Is that guilt talking?" Ravan replied patiently, the old mage was clearly the chosen spokesperson for the assembly.  
  
"Mostly an aversion to chains and Templars," Anders shrugged, rubbing his wrists.   
  
"Karsten and his brothers are on our side. Not all Templars saw fit to side with the increasing intolerance of their order."   
  
"Funny," Anders replied with a wiggle of his eyebrows. "My bruises tell me differently."  
  
"You deserve a lot more than bruises," Karsten replied hotly from his place next to Hawke.  
  
"Are you sure he’s on our side?" Anders drawled, but lost the smile when Hawke gave him a cautioning look to actually take this seriously. The rogue held his tongue for the same reason, good things never happened when he spoke too glibly, and he wasn’t sure he was capable of anything else.  
  
"On our side, yes." Ravan said with a curt nod. "Whether that is the same side as yours remains to be seen."  
  
"Alright," Anders sighed, running a hand over his face, getting back on track. "What do you want to know then?"  
  
"How could you possibly justify what you did?" The question came from another mage, a serene-looking older woman. "Killing all those innocent people…"  
  
"How could you possibly justify doing nothing?" Anders replied hotly, feathers bristling on his shoulders.  
  
For a moment there, Hawke thought he looked exactly like an angry crow, challenging a colony of seagulls. Never a good decision.   
  
"We are not on trial here," Ravan replied.  
  
"Aha," Anders snapped, pointing a finger at the old man. "This is a trial after all. And maybe you should be."  
  
"Would you tell us why that is then?" Ravan asked patiently. It was clear this was not the first time a discussion with Anders had frustrated him.  
  
"Fine," Anders sighed. "This is a story that needs to be told."  
  
The mage took a moment to center himself. Hawke suspected he had been going over this speech again and again in his head, like he had the drafts for his manifesto.   
  
"Everybody keeps telling me that the dead were innocent," the healer started, speaking softly to his audience. "I don’t deny that some probably were. Maybe most. Will I carry their deaths with me to my grave? Yes, I will. But I would do it all again if I had the choice, because the Chantry was far from innocent, and neither was Grand Cleric Elthina." Anders’ voice rose at the last words, daring anybody to interrupt, but his remained the one voice in the room.  
  
"Doing nothing does not make one a good person," he continued, voice strong and angry. "Ignorance is not the same as innocence. She claimed to take no side in the conflict, but by her inaction she condoned what was happening in Kirkwall. What kind of mother stands to the side and lets the older sibling beat up and abuse the younger one? That is not neutrality. That is silently condoning crimes that should never have happened. And on what grounds? That it would complicate matters further? Andraste’s ashes, of course it would complicate things. Life is not simple, and if she was afraid of making tough decision she is no more fit for the role of Grand Cleric than my cat. If I had one." The last was mumbled afterthought, leaving him a moment of silence to catch his breath and let his words sink in before he started speaking anew.  
  
"Have you ever studied history?" Anders asked rhetorically once he had collected himself. "I did. I found it fascinating. Did you know why it took so long for slavery to be outlawed despite everybody agreeing that the Tevinter Imperium was evil, and that we were all the Maker’s children? Because it was hard. Because it was complicated. There were whole noble houses that fed off the slave trade, and ending it would mean an end to quick and easy coin. The economy would crumble, they argued. Who could afford hiring workers in those numbers? The crown would weaken, there would be no taxes, no army and then the Tevinter Imperium would invade again. Besides, there were already beggars on the city streets, vagrants and refugees on the roads with no farms to support them and no hope of a future."  
  
"Wasn’t it better for the slaves to remain slaves?" Anders continued with a cynical grimace. "After all, then they had food and shelter and if their master abused them… well, that was too bad, but maybe it was better to work on just improving their circumstances rather than actually freeing them. Certainly a lot simpler." He spat on the floor, as if he had a bad taste in his mouth, and Hawke found himself wondering exactly how much time the mage had spent talking with Fenris.  
  
"I talked with Elthina," the healer sighed, his worst ire vented. "I pleaded our case again and again and all she would do was to spout words that sounded like they were coming from the mouths of long dead slavers. ‘It would be too dangerous’, she would argue. ‘The people would not support it. There might be unrest. Yes, the abuse of the mages was wrong, but the Templars should be tempered, not abolished completely.’ It’s no wonder this happened in Kirkwall, the city was built on slaves, and the chains never lay unused for long. How many rebellions were put down there before finally succeeding? How many innocent people were slain by people who had just had enough? Been pushed too far?"   
  
"I saw more blood magic there than I had believed possible existed. Are mages dangerous? Maker, yes we are, especially when fighting tooth and claw for our lives and sanity. Backed into a corner even a rabbit turns to fight, and every time another mage cracked it was an excuse to tighten the chains. You can’t really understand. The circle in Ferelden was different, not the norm of how things were done. I kept running away, but Maker, I didn’t know how good I had it." Anders admission seemed to cause the first stirs of surprise in the audience. Apparently they had not expected the renegade to have anything good to say about the place he escaped from.  
  
"I had a benevolent master," Anders continued with a look of dangerous humility on his face. "And if I had been a good slave I could have been spared the whippings and the solitary confinement and given privileges. My leash could have been looser, I could have been allowed to go outside now and again, maybe even get a position at a court, or in a noble’s mansion. Maybe be granted permission to do some research. If I was good." He tapped his cheek with a finger, looking thoughtful, before voice grew harder, sharper. "But marry? Go where I wished to go? Start a family? Have children? Never. Because I was still a slave and my master owned my future and my offspring."   
  
"Think about it," he shouted, silencing the murmurs that had begun to spread amongst the benches. "How many of you have lost a child, had it killed in the womb or given away at birth to be raised by the chantry? How many of you were taken from your parents, not even knowing why you were dragged away? Thinking that it was because you had been bad, complained about your nightmares too much or because your parents really hated you? How many of you have kept silent about the mistreatment of yourself or others just because you were afraid that if you made a fuss, if you protested, you might lose what few privileges you had gained? How many of you have had friends made tranquil, run away or kill themselves just because they could not take being locked up all the time? How many nights have you laid awake wishing you were not a mage, thinking that this was all your fault somehow, that you were bad. Evil. Tainted. Hated and marked by the Maker." Anders was angry now, and the room silent enough to hear a pin drop.   
  
"This couldn’t be allowed to continue," the healer said with steely determination. "I would not allow it to continue. And if that meant killing those others would name innocent, so be it. I accept their blood on my hands because this has to stop. If it takes war, then war there will be. Why is it that it is considered noble to fight the tyranny of a king, but not the Chantry? You know how things are, but have you ever stopped and thought what they could be like? If we only tried?"  
  
Anders’ voice went soft, he had no need to raise his voice anymore, everybody was listening now. “Imagine the Circle as a place of learning, where children could be brought to study and get help to master their magic. Not stolen from their parents but brought there with pride, being able to go home for holidays, and having their relatives visit when they wished to. What would things be like if there was no need to hide? No fear? No stigma?” He paused briefly, then his voice turned sharper, aimed not just at the listeners but at himself  
  
"How many demon infested nightmares have we inflicted on the young just by accepting the Chantry’s judgment on us? How many apostates have turned to abominations, not from evil or a lust for power, but because they feared the Templars more than damnation? Imagine the Circle as a school, where apprentices are kept safe instead of captive. Imagine knowing that you will graduate one day, pass your Harrowing and be allowed to do whatever you want with your life. Marry your sweetheart, stay as a teacher, or just see the world. Imagine how many fewer abominations we would have if mages just knew that they had a future to look forward to. There is nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing to lose. Imagine how many that could be saved just by giving people hope? Isn’t that worth fighting for? Isn’t that worth dying for? A world where a mage could be just a man. Just any man."  
  
Anders paused there, running a hand through his hair, fighting with the sudden sadness that threatened to overcome him. Resigning to his fate.  
  
"If you want to kill me for what I did, fine," he finally continued. "I never expected to survive Kirkwall. But you’ve heard what I said, and I can see some of you thinking. Imagining. Wondering if I am right. That maybe there is another way than just delivering yourself into the hands of the Templars, pleading for mercy with me as the peace offering. Because if you do, know that the blood will be on your hands. Not mine, you’re all welcome to that, but theirs, the dead of the Chantry and of Kirkwall. Because then you let their deaths amount to nothing. You made all this a mistake instead of a beginning. And that, for me, is as great a crime as lighting the fuse."  
  
"You are an unlikely savior," Ravan said at last, breaking the silence of the assembly.  
  
"I am not a savior," Anders sighed. "Maker knows I never wanted more than freedom for myself. But times change. People change."  
  
"We need to discuss this," another mage broke in, voice sharp, but Hawke couldn’t even begin to guess with what emotions.  
  
"Oh feel free," Anders shrugged. "It’s not like I’m going anywhere."  
  
"Actually you are," Ravan said. "Karsten, escort the pair of them to their room. Make sure that they are given food and water, and loosen the chains on the Champion. I do not believe there is a need for them anymore. He seems like a reasonable man."  
  
"Never mind me," Hawke shrugged, dropping the unlocked chains on the floor in front of him. "You just do your talking quickly enough, and I’ll do my best to remain… reasonable. There’s a first time for anything I suppose."   
  
It was a moment he would remember, Hawke decided. It was not often that he had managed to startle a roomful of mages. Nor any time he could remember actually having felt more proud of his lover. He always forgot that, the way the mage could sneak inside his heart and actually make him believe for a moment. Believe that this might actually be possible.  
  
Believe in a better world.


	2. Chapter 2

The kiss was sudden, hard and took Anders completely by surprise with its fierceness. Hawke pressed the mage against the corridor wall, felt him squirm, protest and then melt until Karsten cleared his throat behind them.  
  
"I believe my task was to escort you to your room." The former Templar looked as if he would rather be anywhere but here.  
  
"Fine," Hawke said, pulling back with a smoldering look in Anders’ direction. The mage looked more than a little weak in the knees.   
  
"Lead on," the healer finally managed to choke out, he had spent most of what he had on trying to convince the mages of joining his cause and was now doing his best to keep up the facade.  
  
They resumed their walk through torch-lit tunnels built with skills long since forgotten. Hawke kept looking around, trying to keep track of distances and directions. The place was a maze, with small corridors veering off to all sides, little crypts and alcoves scattered almost haphazardly along the way. It wasn’t built like a human building, he finally realized, it only made sense if you thought of this as a forest of stones, and the corridors as winding pathways and small clearings.    
  
"I… should warn you," the Karsten stuttered as they walked, the young man still embarrassed about what he had just witnessed. "I will be waiting right outside the door, and there is no telling when you could be called upon."  
  
"Oh don’t worry, chantry boy," Hawke drawled in his best Varric imitation. "Didn’t you hear? I’ll be on my best behavior."  
  
"I shudder to think of what that means," Karsten muttered as he unlocked the door, which drew a weak smile even from Anders.   
  
Hawke wisely held his tongue, even though part of him longed to explain that in excruciating detail. That was something he’d have to settle for later. Tormenting innocent chantry boys was a pastime, not a full on job.  
  
Once the door had shut behind them, Hawke made another move for Anders, who pushed him away with a worried look on his face.  
  
"Not now," he snapped, then relented and reached out to touch Hawke’s face.  
  
"I’m sorry," the rogue said softly, kissing the hand before Anders pulled it back. "Its just that Maker’s breath, you’re hot when you get righteous."  
  
"I hope my arguments convinced them rather than enflamed them," Anders said, flushing lightly despite his worried eyebrows.  
  
"So do I," Hawke said with a smirk. "I don’t need the competition."  
  
"I don’t think I have ever been this nervous," the mage confessed as he started pacing. "The people in there, they matter. They are what is important, because if they turn from this, what cause do we have? If I can’t even convince mages that have lived the oppression I wish to end, what chance have I to convince kings and nobles?"  
  
"You did good," Hawke assured, frowning a little. "This is not like you."  
  
"No, this is exactly like me," the mage said sadly. "I’m alone now. No Justice. No surety. Just me and my words and Andraste’s dimpled bum, they know me." Anders groaned, running both hands over his hair. "They are never going to listen."  
  
"Calm down. Deep breaths. They will listen." Hawke debated whether hugging the man would help, but right now the mage was more hedgehog than kitten.  
  
"Other mages maybe," the healer admitted reluctantly. "Other mages that look at me and see a revolutionary. Or even a murderer. But here? These people know me, Hawke. Some of them have known me since I was an apprentice and accidentally blew up the outhouse."  
  
"Accidentally?" Hawke gave the mage a quizzical look.  
  
"Well, not so much," he admitted sheepishly, "but that doesn’t change things."  
  
"So they knew you when you were younger, so what?"  
  
"You don’t understand. I ran away from the circle seven times. About half the enchanters have had reason to discipline me one way or the other." Anders did look truly sick to his stomach thinking about it. The pacing resumed as if moving somehow helped.  
  
"Discipline? That sounds interesting." Hawke smirked a little, trying to break the tense mood with a bit of innuendo. It usually worked. Usually.   
  
"Blast it Hawke, be serious for once," the mage snapped. "If there ever was a time when I needed your support it is now. I can’t do this alone. Not this. Not now." The last words came out more like a plea than chastisement.  
  
"But you are not alone," Hawke said softly, putting his hands on Anders’ shoulders. When he felt no resistance he pulled the mage into a tight embrace and held him there until he stopped shaking.  
  
"I’m sorry," Anders whispered, his head on Hawke’s shoulder, his hands clinging to the straps of the rogue’s armor. "I haven’t seen most of the people in here since I was still in the Circle. For a moment all of this felt like a dream I was waking up from. That I was still trapped behind the stone walls, brought out to defend myself before they decided on my punishment. Maker, I almost lost myself out there."  
  
"It didn’t show," Hawke assured, one arm around the mage’s back, the other slowly caressing his shoulder. Petting. Like a feathered cat. "You were a lot more eloquent than with your manifestoes."  
  
"You actually read them?"  
  
"Yes. Well… no. A little," Hawke admitted. "It all seemed so very logical and dry."  
  
"I tried reason. I thought that had the greatest chance of success. And I couldn’t get too angry. Not with Justice inside me." Bitterness and loss still competed whenever Anders spoke of Justice. His friend was gone, and even if it was for the best, it still smarted.  
  
"I like you angry. I like you this passionate." And he really did, Hawke realized. He had never really wondered why the mage had often backed down once things grew too heated, stalking away with look of regret on his face. During the last months in Kirkwall even the jokes had dried up.  
  
"You made that rather clear before," Anders said, and his voice was a little warmer. More teasing. More like his usual self.  
  
"So what do you say? Want to scandalize the Templar outside?" Hawke waggled his eyebrows seductively, though Anders couldn’t see it in their embrace. Probably for the best all things considered.   
  
"No." Anders shook his head and pushed back, freeing himself. "I’m sorry Hawke, but I meant what I said before. I know it’s hard, but we actually have to make a good impression here."  
  
"You’re starting to show your age," the rogue complained.  
  
"I am glad one of us are." The mage sighed deeply, then gave Hawke a worried look. "Do you truly think we have nothing to worry about?"  
  
"If that speech didn’t get the ball rolling, I don’t know what would. Besides, would they really let us walk this freely if they had planned to shank us?"   
  
"That’s a good point," Anders admitted, but still looked worried. "But you still didn’t need to rub things in with the chains."  
  
"I couldn’t very well let the blighters think they could just truss up the Champion of Kirkwall like a nug for the slaughter." Even if it might have been smarter to be underestimated if they really were in trouble, Hawke silently admitted to himself. Pride would kill him yet.   
  
"Thank you for not hurting them when they brought us in by the way." Anders had calmed some now, running his fingers over the back of Hawke’s skull where the bump had been.   
  
"Just wish they’d stuck with magic and not brought a club to my skull. You said your friends might be skittish; besides, you are really hard to ignore when you’re clinging to my arm shouting NO. Maker, you almost made me deaf there."  
  
"Sorry. I just didn’t want to do anything that couldn’t be undone. These people are our best chance."  
  
"Is it really that bad?" Hawke asked. "Meeting them again?"  
  
Anders sighed and sank down on one of the chairs, leaning forward a bit. He looked so lost there, Hawke thought to himself. He hadn’t seen the mage this resigned to his fate since the Gallows. What in the Maker’s name had happened to him in the past that would make him look like this, well over a decade after the fact?  
  
"Most of them are good people," the mage started. "Some were even friends of sorts. But seeing them again. Hearing them. It brings things back. Things I’d rather left forgotten." He looked down at his hands. Normal hands. Human hands. Bitten nails. Ordinary. "Especially now when Justice is gone. I feel hollow. Empty. Like a painted egg without anything in it. Sometimes I feel like a strong wind could blow me over, but at other times I feel stronger than the Sundermount itself. It will get better I suppose." He hesitated for a moment, looking up at Hawke. "Until then, can I count on you to be there when I need you?"  
  
"I meant what I said in Kirkwall," Hawke said, looking at the mage, willing him to believe every word that he spoke. "I want you with me, right until the end. And if that means having to man up and get serious now and again I can live with it."   
  
Hawke only hoped he could manage to pull it off as well.  
  
…  
  
He had been right, the rogue thought to himself as he walked back the long winding stairs from the assembly hall. Anders speech had convinced them, at least enough to get talks started. Because Maker forbid that mages would ever agree on anything without a debate. No, now the question had turned from whether they would agree to stand with the renegade, to how they could do it in the best possible manner. Some advocated open war, others a more cautious stance, and as the arguments flew back and forth, Hawke grew bored. Nobody here cared much what a non-mage had to say in these matters, and he decided to quietly duck out and familiarize himself with their surroundings instead. Nobody stopped him, but one of the older Templars rose to follow him, catching up just as he’d reached the bottom of the narrow stairs.  
  
"Please Ser Hawke, hold up for a moment." The old man was heavily armored, and obviously well over the crest of the hill on the long, painful slide into old age. He was also quite out of breath.  
  
"From what I understood, we are guests here now, free to come and go?" Hawke stood ready, even without weapons he didn’t doubt he could take the old man in a fight.  
  
"Yes, yes you are," the man said, drawing himself up to his full height. "My apologies, I am Ser Varis, and I was tasked to keep these safe for you." He offered Hawke a carefully wrapped package.  
  
Hawke undid the bindings, revealing his confiscated daggers. He had to admit it, he had felt naked without them, and felt a lot more comfortable once he had slid the Bassrath-Kata back in his harness. He knew he wasn’t exactly a Qunari, but he was still quite aware of the fact that he felt a bit… unmanned without it. Annoying but true. “What about the rest of our equipment?”   
  
"It has been brought to your quarters." Ser Varis looked a bit as if he was about to comment on the multitude of poisons, grenades and plain illegal weaponry, but in the end he held his tongue. "I thought I might show you where while your… friend is busy."  
  
"Appreciate the thought," Hawke said, fighting down the urge to say something he might regret later.  
  
"It is just down this corridor, we have not yet cleared out all the clutter in this area, so watch your step."  The former templar began walking down one of the hallways, their steps echoing in the dim light.  
  
"I still find it odd that former Templars could be so trusted by the mages," Hawke said falling in step behind the older man.  
  
"In some ways our lot is not so different from theirs," Ser Varis admitted. "We live together bound by rules and traditions. Friendships formed, and while none of us doubted the dangers of possession, many of us took issues with the means. When word came of what happened in Kirkwall and rumors started flying that the Knight-Vigilant might declare a rite of annulment for the whole of Thedas, it was decided to act preemptively."  
  
"Some men take easier to desertion than insubordination I suppose."  
  
"You would not understand. Deciding that your commander in chief is no longer honorable does not stain your own honor. Not in the same way as disobeying a direct order. Did you not say that in the end the Templars of Kirkwall deserted Meredith as well?"  
  
"True. I suppose I never understood the finer points of honor," Hawke admitted.  
  
"But I understand that you are a nobleman Ser Hawke? Of the Amell family?"  
  
"My mother was. I was born and raised in Lothering, not on an estate but on a farm. By my apostate father. Might have got the title and the money in the end, but don’t ask me to play their games."  
  
"I see."  
  
"No, you probably don’t," the rogue said with a shrug. "But that’s alright. How did a noble like you end up a templar anyway?"  
  
"My son was taken to the circle when he was six. I took the vows shortly afterward in the hope of staying near him." The words were dry and factual, as if they had been repeated so many times they had lost all emotional importance.  
  
"I didn’t think that was how things worked." Hawke gave the older man a questioning look.  
  
"It is not," the former Templar admitted. "But I learned that too late. He was sent to a circle in Orlais, I was assigned here. I have no idea if he is still alive, only that he passed his Harrowing some years back."  
  
"You have my sympathies," Hawke said quite honestly. "I know how it feels having a relative that is a mage."  
  
"That reminds me, I am afraid I have some bad news. I was told you asked around for your sister when you were brought in?"  
  
"Bethany, yes. And Merrill."  
  
"We have asked around, and nobody matching her description has stayed here. And neither has her elven friend."  
  
"Blast it," Hawke cursed. "I had hoped she might have come here after Denerim. Anders told her of this place."  
  
"Perhaps she still remains in the capital. King Alistair is refusing to cooperate with the chantry; I am told he still even has a court mage."  
  
"That is what I hope. Maker but I hope she is alright." Hawke hated having left her on her own, but quite frankly after Par Vollen and Tevinter she was probably safer of here.  
  
The templar put a hand on Hawke’s shoulder, giving it a supportive squeeze. “If she is anything like the tales being told of her brother she is a resourceful woman.”  
  
"In some ways," Hawke admitted. "In some ways not. Did you serve in the Ferelden circle long?"  
  
"For more than twenty years," the former Templar said with a sigh. "I was away during Uldred’s rebellion, or I might not have been standing here today."  
  
"I am sorry to hear that," Hawke said cryptically, then yanked the templar into a side passage, Bassrath-Kata at his throat.  
  
"What is the meaning of this?" Ser Varis sounded more surprised than afraid, despite the sharpness of the steel pricking his skin.  
  
"I wouldn’t go for your sword," Hawke cautioned. "As I pointed out I have no honor, and I have become very good at killing Templars."  
  
"This makes no sense Ser Hawke."  
  
"It will." Hawke’s smile was as sharp as his dagger. "Now just walk ahead, it looks like there’s a small crypt there or something, where we can talk undisturbed."  
  
"There is no need for the blade if you just want to talk."  
  
"It makes me feel better. Be so kind and indulge me."  
  
Hawke shoved the older man into the small room he had spotted at the end of the short, ruined passageway. It was a crypt, much like he had suspected. Hopefully not one that would be filled with undead if he pissed off the wrong spirit. But he guessed the mages would have taken care of that when they moved in. He hoped. He didn’t want to get interrupted. Not now.   
  
"Now what is the meaning of this?" Ser Varis managed to sound like a man of authority despite being shoved up against a crumbling wall with a blade at his throat, Hawke had to give him that.  
  
"You and me are going to have a talk about Anders," the rogue said coldly, "and exactly what you and your Templar brothers put him through.  
  
"Why me?"  
  
"You had the right age to have been there a while, and you also seemed honorable enough not to lie about things if you gave me your word."   
  
"And now you know I was there at the same time he was. Clever."  
  
"That’s me," Hawke said with a not so humble smile.  
  
"Does he know about this?"  
  
"Maker no, he’d stop me. This will be our little secret." The blade nearly caressed the man’s jugular. It would require so little pressure to end the discussion right then and there. Just a small cut. Wouldn’t even hurt. Much.  
  
"What makes you think I won’t tell anybody?" Ser Varis sounded indignant and angry, the normal way for any man of action to deal with being helpless.  
  
"Because you will swear to me to tell the truth and not to tell anybody of our little chat."  
  
"Why are you doing this?"  
  
"Because," Hawke started, cold anger dripping from his words. "Because I just watched a man that has faced down darkspawn and dragons with a laugh almost have a breakdown at the mere thought of confronting people from his past. A man that I love. A man that won’t talk to me about it. So then I decided to find somebody that would."  
  
"I see. Very well, Ser Hawke. I swear on the honor of my family that I will tell nobody of what happened here."  
  
"And that you will tell the truth."  
  
"I never lie."  
  
"Not good enough."  
  
"I swear on the honor of my family that I will tell you the truth as far as I know it," the old man said in a strained voice. "Satisfied?"  
  
"For the moment," Hawke said with a cold smirk. "See, that wasn’t so hard."  
  
"You should not have made an enemy of me," Ser Varis warned.  
  
"I have plenty already." The rogue shrugged and the knife retreated a fraction of an inch. "Now tell me about Anders."  
  
"What do you wish to know?" Resigned words from a tired man.  
  
"He told me he ran away. A lot." Simple truths to get a man started talking.  
  
"He did. Most mages manage once or twice before they accept the bonds that the Maker has put on them. Not so him."  
  
"Not the Maker either," Hawke said sharply. "The chantry. Men."  
  
"I did not take you for a believer."  
  
"I’m not. He is. So I don’t argue the point." It wasn’t that important to Hawke, in his experiences he needed to worry about men a lot more than about gods.  
  
"He never was very insidious about it," the old man continued. "Which why he was never determined to be a true maleficar. His escapes never seemed to be thoroughly planned, he never tried to destroy his phylactery, and he never struggled much with the Templars that were sent for him."  
  
"Insidious? No, that’s not Anders." Hawke suspected that might have been Justice. Keeping secrets. Setting the course. "So what happened? It all seems so very innocent so far." Like when the mage used to joke about when he felt good. Like it all had been a game. A game that had gone horribly wrong somewhere.  
  
"You have to understand that not all of us see the mages as monsters. It is a dangerous curse they carry, and one that requires discipline. Which he had none. A child can destroy something valuable out of carelessness, anger or maliciousness. Anders was simply careless. It was decided that in time he might mature and gain enough discipline that he might be trusted."  
  
"Terribly patient of you," Hawke said with frightening politeness. "Doesn’t sound like men who would make him wake up with a cold sweat in the middle of the night thinking he was back."  
  
"He was… difficult," Ser Varis admitted. "A difficult apprentice and doubly so once he passed his Harrowing. How do you discipline a child? You give them a through whipping and hope that they have learned their lesson. He never did. Some grew impatient. Excessive."  
  
"And then he grew up."   
  
"And then he grew up. Talented. Powerful. Wynne had her eye on him. He learned fast. Some say too fast. But healing was a gift and even when he begun to attract the spirits of the fade it was forgiven. A spirit healer is a rare and wondrous thing. Dangerous. Few can and dare to do it. Even fewer the spirits accept."  
  
"And he kept running away."  
  
"He did. Physical punishments had not worked, so it was decided that perhaps isolation and imprisonment would. Give him time to think. Mend his ways. Find some discipline."  
  
"I’m beginning to hate that word," Hawke said with disgust. "Discipline."  
  
"All he had to do was to listen, obey, grow up and accept his lot in life. We all walk down the paths the Maker has put in front of us,"  
  
"It does not work that way," Hawke said with something akin to pity. He dreaded the next question, but he needed to know. To get some manner of confirmation. "I need to know. Tell me. Did … was he raped?"  
  
"Not to my knowledge," the former Templar said with the slightest bit of hesitation that revealed there was more to the story. "If we had known, the templar responsible would be banished from the order. But there were rumors. Things like that happened at times, loathe as I am to admit it. Why not ask him?"  
  
"He deserves to forget," Hawke said hotly. "Not to have it dragged back up."  
  
"Like you are doing." There was reproach in the old man’s voice, and for once Hawke didn’t argue that he might deserve it.  
  
"I need to know," he said instead. "Are there any of the Templars that used to deal with him here?"  
  
"No. Most died from Uldred’s depravations. Some of the others joined different chantries, like your Cullen. I am probably the only templar here that actually met him in the Circle tower."  
  
"If I killed you now, he would never need to be reminded of what he went through," Hawke said, the blade resting under the man’s chin.  
  
"It would not be right." The former Templar didn’t cringe back.  
  
"May the blight take what’s right!" Hawke cursed, hand steady despite his anger. "You haven’t woken up in the middle of the night and felt him shake."  
  
"No," the old man admitted. "But I am still haunted by my son’s cries when he was taken away from us. My wife killed herself soon afterwards."  
  
"Shut up," the rogue growled. "You are the only one of them I will ever lay my hands on. Of the ones responsible." He couldn’t protect Anders. But he could avenge him. He should.   
  
"What would it change?" Ser Varis asked, more concern than fear in his voice.  
  
"It would feel so good," Hawke admitted, his voice cracking a little.   
  
"You can’t change the past," the former Templar said sadly. "You can’t save him from it."  
  
"I wish I could." Hawke lowered the blade, his fingers were numb, his throat thick with emotion.   
  
"So do we all," Ser Varic said, gently placing a hand on Hawke’s shoulder, feeling the shivers passing through it. "So do we all."


	3. Chapter 3

"Don’t sulk," Anders said, quickening his step a bit to keep up with Hawke. The road to Denerim was dusty, but in Ferelden he had learned to appreciate dust. Dust was better than mud, which was the more common alternative by far.   
  
"I’m not sulking," Hawke lied, quickening his step as well. It had been a game he had played all morning, keeping the mage just on the verge of catching up. Anders wasn’t exactly out of shape, but neither could he compete with Hawke.  
  
"Says the man who looks like he’s had nothing to eat but turnips for the last fortnight." Anders rolled his eyes and stopped to catch his breath. As predicted, Hawke stopped as well, content that the mage had conceded defeat in this ridiculous little competition of theirs. Luckily, he still had a staff to lean on.  
  
"I happen to like turnips," Hawke said, hooking both thumbs in the straps for his pack. They were getting close to their destination, but luckily only the foolish walked out in the noonday sun. All the farmers and traders had already entered the city at daybreak, and wouldn’t leave again until the late afternoon. With the recent rumors of war making the farmers skittish, not many people took the chance travelling anywhere unless absolutely necessary.  
  
"Then you’ve got no excuse," Anders chided, leaning on his Tevinter staff. Covered with dust and leather straps it looked very much like an ordinary spear with a rather creative tip. "Just like you have no excuse for trying to leave me behind in the Brecilian refuge."  
  
"I wasn’t trying to leave you," Hawke said, pulling out a water skin to have a drink. "I am only making a little detour to Denerim; I would have been back and forth in no time. And you were busy." He offered the mage the water as a peace offering of sorts.  
  
"From my experience your short trips tend to turn into disasters with alarming frequency." Anders drank deeply, splashing some water on his dusty face as well. "Like that time at the Bone Pit? Yes, ‘I’m just going to check up on my investment’ you said. Be back before nightfall."  
  
"I was," Hawke said with an innocent shrug.  
  
"Chewed up and spat out by a dragon! I thought you would die! If Aveline had not got you back as fast as she did, you would be dead. Proper dead. For real. Nothing to be done about. Even I can’t work miracles." The mage spat the accusation with surprising ferocity, the fear still so very real in his memory.  
  
"I did manage to survive just fine before you came along you know…" The rogue crossed his arms over his chest, looking just the slightest shade of guilty.  
  
"I have no idea how. Oh, wait, I do. Bethany." The eyeroll was impossible to miss.  
  
"So you understand why I have to go there."   
  
"I do," Anders said with a sigh. "I’m not arguing that. I love her too. Which is why I am coming along with you."  
  
"But you have duties back there," Hawke protested. He had hardly had time to speak with Anders this last week, and that was one of the reasons which had spurred his impromptu little trip. Just something to do while the mage was busy. At least he could use that excuse to put to rest his growing worries about his sister.  
  
"To the blight with my duties," Anders exclaimed. "We have agreed on a general plan for what we need to do; now they just need to decide how to best go about it. It will take weeks before they have agreed on which ones that will remain in their hideout, and which ones will chance to take a more active hand.  
  
"But what if you’re recognized?" The closer they had come to the city, the more people they had met on the road. Granted, he didn’t expect that Fereldan farmers would know who they were, but a city was different.   
  
"Contrary to public opinion and my own ego, I am not really that distinctive a man." Anders sounded slightly saddened by this fact. "Two, I’m not dressed as a mage, and Maker knows people looked at my clothes more than me most of the time."  
  
"I can understand that," Hawke drawled with a teasing smile. "I always…"  
  
"Shush, love, don’t insult the feathers. Even I have limits."  
  
"But I had such a good joke lined up," Hawke complained.  
  
"Fine," Anders said with a sigh. "Let’s hear it. Get it out so I can smack you for it."  
  
"I always wondered if you dressed up as a bird to attract kittens," Hawke said hopefully.  
  
"No, no smack for you" the mage answered after a moment of thought. "That wasn’t a very good joke."   
  
"Blast it," Hawke cursed. "It was all your fault, you made me lose my moment."  
  
"Or maybe you’ve lost your touch," Anders supplied helpfully, with a wiggle of his eyebrows.  
  
"Or maybe you are trying to distract me from having you turn back," Hawke warned.  
  
"It hasn’t worked so far," Anders said with the sweetest of smiles. "Besides, Denerim should be just over the hill according to the farmers we talked to earlier. Just give up Hawke, I’m with you for the duration. Accept that."  
  
"I have," Hawke admitted, a resigned look on his face. "Ever since you caught up with me in the forest. This doesn’t mean I’m going to stop complaining about it any time soon though."  
  
"Should I start complaining about my armor again?" Anders said with a challenging look. "Because I have no idea how you walk around wearing these things all day, the straps chafe and the sweat, Andraste’s finely polished sword, I smell like… well, like Oghren."  
  
"It is not armor," Hawke said and patted the mage on his shoulder. "It’s just leather pauldrons and a few pads and straps. You would never manage the real thing."  
  
"Maker, I know. Just because I’m trying to look like a mercenary doesn’t mean I want to give up on the option to blast some fools." Anders fingered the unfamiliar trappings with a frown.  
  
"You look more like a farmer trying to impersonate a mercenary," Hawke said with a laugh. "But that’s alright too, with those braids in your hair you look like any other dispossessed Fereldan bumpkin trying to make his way in the world."  
  
"Do you like them?" Anders flicked one of them. They kept getting in his face, and it was all he could do not to tie everything back in his usual ponytail, but it was all in the name of disguise. And Fereldans loved their braids.  
  
"They are growing on me," Hawke admitted with a smile. "Now let’s get back on the road, I want us to be inside the walls before nightfall, and with the speed you’re walking, that’s going to be touch and go."  
  
"I would walk faster if I wasn’t bruised just about everywhere," the mage complained as he started off down the dusty road, this time keeping pace with the rogue. "You are really not a very good teacher you know."  
  
"I happen to be an excellent teacher," Hawke said with mock affront. "Just blessed with a student who keeps holding his spear like a staff. This was all your idea."  
  
"Just because I want to have the option to stab someone in the face doesn’t mean that I am signing up for a bruised behind."  
  
"You had better learn to parry faster then. You can’t rely on shields when we’re trying to be discreet about magic. Lucky for you I only used a stick."  
  
"Lucky for you I didn’t fry your stabby ass out of sheer principle."  
  
"Don’t sulk," Hawke said, leaning in to give the mage a one-armed hug. "You can have your revenge drowning me when you finally get around to teaching me how to swim."  
  
"That is never going to happen, is it?" Anders sounded slightly sad at this missed opportunity for revenge.  
  
"Not if I can help it," Hawke said with a laugh, dodging the elbow swipe aimed for his ribs.  
  
…  
  
They had made it inside the city wall well before nightfall; in fact the sun had quite a long way before it would drop below the horizon. As Hawke had hoped, the guards hadn’t given them a more than a cursory examination and asked if they had any coin to support them while they were here. Apparently Denerim had similar problems to Kirkwall these days, people flocking there for safety and fortune, filling the once ruined city with beggars and thieves. Nobody would look twice at them, while his tattoo had been enough to distinguish him in Kirkwall, here it was as common as dogs or mud.   
  
"Maker, they’ve come a long way rebuilding this town." Anders looked around the busy square with appreciation. "I hear it was almost in ruins after the blight and the battle with the Archdemon. Now it looks almost… presentable."  
  
"This is a capital? I was expecting something a bit more… showy." Hawke had to ask, because honestly, the whole place seemed so… haphazard, a patchwork quilt of low stone and wood buildings sprawling up the side of a low mountain. It had none of the planned stony grandeur of Kirkwall, the markets were just a country bazaar compared to Llomerryn, and there was no comparison to even the tiniest city in Tevinter.   
  
"I forgot you had never seen it," Anders said and wove deftly through the market crowd.   
  
"Never saw much outside the Lothering countryside," Hawke admitted. "I always used to be in the face of the people in Kirkwall calling us unwashed barbarians, but… I have to admit, they might have had a point."  
  
It felt so odd being surrounded by people that spoke in his dialect again. It should all be so familiar, but instead he just felt more out of place than he had in Llomerryn. There, everybody had been strangers in a strange land, here he was the odd one out, pretending to be as home here as everybody else. Looking the part. Sounding the part. But did he feel it? He wasn’t even sure anymore. He had told Fenris once that his home was Kirkwall now, and though he hadn’t been sure at the time, now it felt increasingly true. This was his homeland. His people. And yet he felt like he was visiting. Had his mother felt the same way when she had returned to Kirkwall? Maybe. Probably.  
  
"Nobody ever sat down and decided to build this city," Anders said, gesturing to the labyrinthine quality of the dirty streets. "It just used to be a Tevinter outpost back here in the day, that’s the looming tower in the distance. People just kept building around it, knocking things down when they could afford something bigger and better. The palace district is… well, slightly more impressive."  
  
"And we have to figure out a way to get inside there." Hawke pulled out a few coppers, buying them both some meat on a stick. He’d missed that in Kirkwall, there was just nothing better than slowly roasted nug. What the Kirkwallers had against the squealing little nuisances he had no idea. They were delicious.  
  
"I assumed you had a plan for it beyond going up and knocking on the gates," Anders said, questioning eyebrow shooting up.  
  
"I had. Just sneak inside, find the king, have a chat." Hawke shrugged as if that would have been the simplest ask in the world. "And then you came along."  
  
"Are you calling me clumsy?" The mage poked him with his empty meat-skewer.  
  
"Ow," Hawke complained. "I call them as I see them. You’re not exactly the most subtle man I know. Or the most agile."  
  
"And here I thought I’d get a respite from this kind of badgering when Fenris decided to stay with Isabela."  
  
"I don’t know about badgering," Hawke retorted. "You two looked pretty friendly last time I saw you."  
  
"That would be an exaggeration." Anders brushed back the annoying braid, looking thoughtful. "We just… got a few things straightened out between us. Both of us. It’s not like we’re going to take up playing Diamondback or something."  
  
"He might miss someone to play with now that Donnic is gone." For some reason Hawke found it hard to mock the fact that Fenris and Anders now were on what at least appeared to be speaking terms.   
  
"There’s always Isabela," Anders suggested.  
  
"I think he likes winning a bit too much for that."   
  
"Are you implying I’m a bad gambler as well?"   
  
"My, my, someone is prickly today, maybe we should find a room and see if I can’t unruffled some of your feathers," Hawke suggested with a smirk.  
  
"Not the worst idea," Anders started, then caught sight of something over Hawke’s shoulder, eyebrows pulling together in a worried frown.  
  
"What?" Hawke asked, turning around to see what was happening.  
  
The crowds in the market square were parting to allow a squadron of soldiers marching through, led by a very familiar redhead on a horse. Aveline looked her usual commanding self, the armor was a different style than the one she had worn as guard captain, but it was no less imposing. She wore the colors of the crown, and by the way people bowed their heads and shouted greetings, she had already made an impression of herself.  
  
"Andraste’s ashes, here comes trouble," Anders said, the frown deepening.  
  
"Or opportunity." Hawke moved to the side with the rest of the crowd, but made sure to be in the first row of onlookers.  
  
"I don’t think this is wise," Anders whispered, tugging at the rogue’s arm.   
  
"We need a way in," Hawke whispered back. He would have liked to add that Aveline still owed him, but he thought all scores had been wiped clean in the battle for the Gallows. But hopefully friendship would still count for something.  
  
As the horse tottered past, Hawke took half a step forward and made a small wave, nearly indistinguishable amongst the rest of the onlookers. He counted on Aveline not having lost her touch.   
  
She had not. Unfortunately.  
  
"Halt," she commanded, raising her hand and her men obediently came to a halt behind her. "Arrest those men," she continued with a gesture at Hawke and Anders, who suddenly found themselves quite alone as the rest of the crowd backed away.  
  
"Yes Captain," came the snappy replies and Hawke and Anders suddenly found themselves surrounded by armored men with drawn weapons.  
  
"I told you," Anders muttered quietly to himself, hiding his face in his hand.  
  
"What?" Hawke managed to spit out, but something in Aveline’s gaze stopped him from going for his daggers. She looked ready to ride him down if she had to. "What have we done now?"  
  
"They are deserters," Aveline explained quite loudly for the sake of the soldiers and the crowd. "Take them in, throw them in the dungeon and make sure they stay there under guard until I have time to question them. If they resist…" she paused for a moment, giving Hawke a warning glance. "Cut them down."  
  
She meant that, Hawke realized with a sinking feeling. She meant every single word.  
  
Maker’s breath what had he stumbled into now?


	4. Chapter 4

Denerim castle lay heavy at the heart of the city, stone body sprawled like a relaxed mabari, protecting its surroundings. Hawke could feel the weight of the walls pressing down on him when they were brought into the dungeons. He’d never had a problem with enclosed spaces before, but being locked up underground brought unwelcome memories of other dungeons. Tevinter. The one saving grace of this place was that there were no chains, and no screams of distant torture. Just the smell of dungeons everywhere, damp and filled with piss and the despair of the destitute and downtrodden. 

He and Anders had been stripped of their weapons and armor and tossed into a barred cell, but they had been kept together and none had treated them as anything more than normal deserters. That gave Hawke hope that perhaps this had all been a ruse, perhaps this was just Aveline’s way of talking to them in secret without causing a scene. It wasn’t like it would be hard to get out of here if they had to, but for now they had decided to wait and see what game the tall redheaded woman was playing.

It didn’t take long for them to find out. Two guards arrived after a few hours, leading Hawke through darkened corridors only to deposit him in what looked like a small office, perhaps for the officer in charge of the prisoners. Aveline was there, waiting at the desk. The door closed behind the pair with heavy finality, and the rogue could hear a key being turned. They were now alone. Secure. Just the two of them. He would have felt a whole lot better about that if Aveline hadn’t been glaring daggers at him. Daggers? More like broadswords.

"For some reason I get the impression that you’ve waited a long time to see me behind bars," Hawke said, looking innocent though all his alarm bells were ringing. 

"Can you argue that you have not been deserving of a visit here on more than one occasion?" Aveline asked, standing up behind the desk, arms crossed and brow furrowed. "You have no respect for the law Hawke, I stood aside too many times on account of our friendship. Now I wonder if I did the right thing."

"One, if I broke any laws, it was because they deserved breaking." He really hoped she wasn’t too aware of all the unsavory dealings he had with Athenril behind her back. She’d forgiven them that first year because beggars weren’t choosers, but afterwards? He doubted it. "Two, that was in Kirkwall. Things are different now."

"They certainly are." She did not take her eyes off the rogue, her demeanor as steady and confident as always. "This is Denerim. This is my town. I do not know what you are doing here, but it can’t be good."

"And so you nab us and chuck us in a cell. Really bright Aveline, did come up with that one all by yourself?" Hawke drawled, rolling his eyes.

"What was I to do? Bring you to the nearest bar and offer you a drink? I think not Hawke, we have passed that point a few rivers back."

"Too bad, my throat is dry and I think somebody pissed in the water jug. The quality of your dungeons do leave a bit to be desired." Hawke wrinkled his nose a bit. "Honestly, the only reason I am staying here is out of courtesy, your locks are really not that good." 

"Honesty? You don’t even know the meaning of the word, and yet you keep throwing it around." Aveline shook her head and rounded the desk, talking as she paced. "You wreck the lives of people around you without even realizing what you are doing, you abuse the loyalty and devotion of your friends, and then you expect them to still be there at your beck and call once you are done with your little adventures?"

"They weren’t exactly little," Hawke grumbled. "And I never forced anybody to follow me, you all did, of your own free will."

"Except Fenris," she said, voice hard like the stones that surrounded them. "He followed his conscience and you took your blade to him. Would you have done the same to me had I chosen to stand for law and order?"

"Meredith stood for none of those things, and you know it!"

"That is why I sided with you," she retorted. "But I need an answer, not your endless glib evasions."

"You want an answer?" Hawke snapped. "Fine. I would have. Had you taken up arms against me I would have fought you. This was too important. I’m sorry Aveline, I love you like a sister, but this was about Bethany’s life. I wouldn’t fail her again."

"Don’t make this about Bethany," Aveline said with a dangerous look. "This was not about her. This was about Anders, and you know it. I can overlook many things, but…" She shook her head in disbelief. "Did you even know what he was planning to do?"

"I did not," Hawke admitted. "But it doesn’t matter. Done is done, the question is what are you going to do about it? If you just plan to stand there and complain you might as well take me back to my cell so I can take a nap. Sermons are boring." He yawned widely, popping his neck a bit as he did so.

"You…" she snorted, throwing up her hands, walking away a few steps before turning back. "You infuriating blighted fool of a man! Are you that intent on throwing your life away?"

"I don’t know, are you that intent on throwing us in jail? Or would you prefer watching us hang?"

"You did desert from the army," Aveline said sharply.

"We both did," Hawke protested. "The army was in ruins after Ostagar, it was flee or die and you know it."

"King Alistair has extended an amnesty for every deserter that chooses to return to serve Ferelden once more." Her face was stern and unreadable.

"Are you serious?" Hawke ran both hands over his short hair. "Maker’s breath, you are. Are you suggesting that I… You’re just not a city guard, are you?"

"Just a city guard?" she asked with a dangerous voice. It was never wise to insult the guard in her presence, even if Hawke tended to do it anyway. "No, I am the Captain of the Royal Guard of Ferelden." There was a hint of pride in her voice when she spoke those words.

"Maker…" Hawke stepped back from the bars, shaking his head. "And you would have me serve the kingdom? After berating me for a useless blighted criminal?"

"That is not all that you are Hawke, I would never have cared otherwise. You are not a shiftless youth anymore, you can be more than what you are."

"What I am… Maker’s breath, do you even know that anymore?" Hawke said, raising his voice as he continued, "I don’t want to be in your blighted army, there is already a war going on and it has nothing to do with borders or kings. That’s where I belong."

"Your little ‘war’ is threatening to cast Ferelden into chaos," Aveline said harshly, stepping closer. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep order in a country doing its best to tear itself apart? Do you have any idea what you have done when you released the madness of Kirkwall upon Thedas?"

"Yes, I do," Hawke said, stepping up to face her. She was just a fraction shorter than him, and did not flinch from his gaze. "I know a lot of things you don’t give me credit for. Maybe you ought to ask me the right questions instead of throwing me in prison and piss me off. Bars disagree with me. Or are you afraid?"

"Do not be absurd," Aveline said, gritting her teeth. "I brought you here so we could talk uninterrupted. I am not afraid of you."

"No, you are afraid of what I represent. Face it Aveline, change is coming, like it or not. You just can’t wait it out and pretend that Ferelden will be safe from this shitstorm." Hawke poked her in the chest, dirty fingertip against shiny armor.

"The one that you and Anders unleashed!" she snapped in frustration. 

"Sometimes fighting and dying is preferable to the alternative."

"That is your choice, Hawke, but it is not your place to make it for others. You can fight; the countless innocent that will be killed can not!"

"Then pick a side you blighted woman, pick our side and help us win this war and save some lives."

"But you won’t win, Hawke. You will only cause more deaths until your inevitable defeat."

"If you truly believe that, then you should just kill us both now when you have the chance," Hawke said with deadly seriousness. "Or maybe you are not prepared to do what needs to be done for your beliefs." He knew he was losing his temper, but right now he didn’t give a crap. "See, I’ll make it easier for you. You won’t even have to look me in the eye." He turned his back, staring at the locked door in front of him. Alone. They were truly on their own now, weren’t they? No allies they could trust.

"You blasted idiot," Aveline said, reaching out to grab Hawke’s shoulder, jerking him around. "Do not play this game with me." The punch was hard, armored fist tearing a gouge on the rogue’s cheek as he crashed to the ground, Aveline on top.

"That’s more li…" Hawke started, laugh interrupted by another fist to the face. Stars erupted, pain blossomed, blast it, she was heavy in her armor, and knew how to pin a man down. Donnic couldn’t have it easy in bed. He tried to deflect the blows as best he could, but she was strong and fast and angry and Maker, she really wanted to hurt him.

When she finally pulled back he was left bruised and bloody, gasping for breath on the floor. His mouth tasted like blood, one eye was starting to swell shut, and he was fairly certain a tooth or two had been knocked loose. He felt like he’d been trampled by a bronto, or possibly flirted too hard with a Qunari.

"Hawke," she said with a sigh as she wiped her armored fists clean. "I don’t want to do this."

"Then don’t, next time I might hit back" Hawke said, fingering his jaw. "Maker, I’m lucky you didn’t knock a tooth out. Still, it’s gonna take more than that to shut me up."

"It always did, didn’t it?" Aveline let out a short huff that might have been a sigh or a groan. "Here," she said, offering her hand to help him up.

After a moment’s hesitation Hawke took it, grimacing as he was hauled to his feet. This made him doubly glad he had never really tried to take Aveline in a fair fight, the woman was formidable. And he rarely bothered fighting fairly. 

"What now?" he asked, fingering the jagged gash on his face. His hand came away bloody. Fitting.

"Why did you come here?" Aveline shook her head, looking as if she was hoping he might go away just as quietly as he had arrived.

"Despite what you seem to imagine, I didn’t come here to overturn your precious little kingdom."

"It is your kingdom too, Hawke. Your King. Your homeland." 

"Is it really? Hawke asked, shrugging a little. "I’m not sure I even have one anymore."

"It is not something you can choose to discard at will," she said, sounding almost amused. "A homeland is like family. You might disagree with it, but it will always be there."

"Unlike friends," Hawke said sharply. "No, I’m sorry, I didn’t come here to pick a fight. It was family that brought me actually. Bethany. Last I heard she was here."

"Bethany left over a month ago," Aveline said, handing Hawke the rag for his bleeding cheek once she was done cleaning her hands. "She and Merrill decided that being here put us all too much at risk. They decided to travel to the Brecilian Forest. Supposedly a safe haven for mages is hidden there."

"Maker’s balls," Hawke cursed. "We just came from there, they had seen neither hide nor hair of her."

"Could they have gotten lost?" 

"Merrill knew the forest. She might be a klutz in the city, but the Dalish know how forests works. She wouldn’t have got lost. Something has happened." Hawke felt a familiar sinking feeling in his gut. Not again. He just kept losing things, he’d lost her twice already, first to the circle and then to the circumstances of their flight.

"We will find her, Hawke." Aveline reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Whatever you are, your sister is a good woman."

"Oh thank you very much," Hawke said with a crooked smile. 

"I call them as I see them," she said blithely.

"Does that mean that we can put this whole prison mess behind us and get on with things?"

"It is not that easy," Aveline said, looking sternly at the rogue. "I meant what I said before. You are a deserter and a wanted criminal. The only one that can give you a pardon is the King."

"And what about Anders?"

"Anders…" she pulled back her hand, shaking her head. "I know you care for him, but after what he did he is too dangerous to be running loose with that spirit inside him."

"Good thing that is no longer the case then," Hawke said sharply. "He’s free from that particular curse now, whatever he is, whatever crime he has committed in your eyes he’s just a man. Not an abomination."

"How?" she said with a disbelieving look. "I thought the process was irreversible?"

"Aveline, since when have you known me to actually accept that something might be impossible? It wasn’t easy… but we did it."

"Hawke," she warned. "Lie to me and lose what little goodwill you have left."

"Tevinter," the rogue confessed reluctantly. "We went there after we had dropped you off. We found a way to separate the spirit from the man with the help of one of the Magisters. She planned to backstab us of course, she wanted the spirit for herself, but most mages can’t argue with a dagger in their back. We blew some things up and escaped just minutes ahead of a very angry mob. Oh, and we found Fenris. Who have yet to kill either me or Anders. We made our peace with him."

"Did I hit you so hard I addled your brain? Fenris is dead, you said so yourself."

"Apparently the elf is tougher than I gave him credit for, or I am losing my touch. He survived but got dragged back to Tevinter. Met him in a dungeon I had managed to end up in. We killed a few guards and escaped. I don’t like dungeons, or the people that guard them." There was a sharpness to his tone there, and just not from the unpleasant memories. He didn’t want Aveline to think that she might hold them here indefinitely.

"Fenris is…alive, I am glad to hear that at least is not a death that will rest on our shoulders."

"My shoulders. I will stand by my decisions. No need for you to carry them for me."

"And will Anders stand for what he has done now that he is not possessed?" Aveline asked the question carefully, watching the rogue.

"His views have not changed," Hawke said simply. "We will fight this war Aveline; we’ve passed the point of no return a long time ago. Whether you will be on our side or in our way is your decision."

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I serve King Alistair. It will be his decision." 

"I could just take you down and escape from here you know."

"I don’t think so, Hawke, I have been watching you for all these years, I know your tricks." Aveline seemed as confident in her abilities as ever. "But more than that, I know your heart. You are worried about Bethany. You need all the help you can get if something has happened to her."

"Maker’s balls," Hawke grumbled, spitting a gob of blood on the floor. She was right, and he hated it. "You win. I’ll behave and have a talk with your precious King. But lay one hand on Anders and Maker help you, I won’t be responsible for what happens."

"You still love him then, after all that he has done?" She sounded as if she did not quite understand how this could be the case.

"Aveline," Hawke said with a sigh, looking at his oldest friend. "I don’t love him despite his actions; I love him because of them." It had taken him some time to come to that realization, but there it was. "As would you if you only stopped and actually considered what he is doing. You’re so similar the pair of you."

He’d never really thought about that before, but it was true. Both Aveline and Anders had very strong views on what the world should be like, and they were not at all as dissimilar as they thought. A world where all people, regardless of power, heritage or wealth could live without fear of persecution and abuse. 

A silly pipedream in Hawke’s opinion, and something that would never happen. And yet he could not help but admire those people that believed in something strongly enough to try to force that change. There were worse cases to die for.

Not that he had any plans on going down that road soon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Anders' point of view.

Alone again. Truly alone now that I don’t even have Justice for company. Andraste’s ass, I never thought I would miss him, but at times like this I really do. Metal bars. Stone walls. The smell of piss. Worrying about what will happen. About what has happened to Hawke. Just a talk they said, the Captain wanted to see him. Hopefully that means Aveline, and hopefully he can keep his mouth shut.  
  
I am such an optimist.  
  
Heavy footsteps warn me before the door slides open and I am let out as well, escorted by silent men with sharp blades. No mages. No Templars either. Escape would be easy but we came here voluntarily, and I can’t believe that they rely solely on guards to keep me here in case I wanted to leave. There have to be things I am missing. I feel watched. That particular crawling feeling down my spine like a menacing spider. The guards are the distraction, not the threat, and something is lurking in the shadows. Someone.  
  
So I behave. Make small talk even. Jokes. They fall on arid ground, but at least they don’t hit me. We haven’t outstayed our welcome just yet. Still, the guards look relieved when they deliver me at my destination, a smallish office smelling of tea and books and sandalwood. The door locks behind me, but I hardly notice. I am far too busy staring at the old robed woman that has been waiting for me.  
  
"Wynne?" I ask, not really daring to believe. She was old last I saw her, and should be older now. Maybe there is a bigger helping of wrinkles on her face, but she looks remarkably preserved. I have aged far worse than her.  
  
"Anders," she replies, and I know that voice. It is her. No illusion. Nobody could manage to pull off that particular mixture of kindness and reproach that she has.  
  
"I suppose a hug is out of the question?" I ask, not daring to get my hopes up. "Considering…" Well, considering many things, chief amongst them that I am probably one of the most reviled people in Thedas. At least in certain circles.   
  
"It would hardly be proper," she lectures, as if I was once again the wayward apprentice caught goofing off in class instead of healing whatever frog or rabbit they had brought in for us this time. "This is supposedly an interrogation."  
  
"Oh," I say, face falling a little despite the fact that I suspected this answer. "I see."   
  
"Though I suppose a hug wouldn’t really be the worst thing either of us has been found guilty of." Her smile is not large, but she opens her arms in unspoken invitation.  
  
I have crossed the floor and hugged her tightly almost before she finished speaking. Wynne. She feels so frail in my arms, like a bird you could crush if handled wrong. Birds. Bird wings. The most complex things we were given to heal, a myriad of tiny hollow bones and slender muscles that had to be set perfectly to allow flight. Most apprentices never advanced that far, but they had me dealing with sparrows and nightingales before I had even passed my Harrowing. Perhaps I should have been proud, but all I could think of was the man who kept breaking their wings. The man who had to take them in hand and crush them so we could put them back together again. No wonder they did not sing in their cages, trapped for a singular purpose of horror. Why heal them when they would never be allowed to see the sky again?  
  
My first act of true rebellion. To let them all out.  
  
Futile perhaps, new birds were caught and the ones I released probably didn’t last long in the wild. Not after what they had been through. That’s what they told me. That I had only hurt more birds in the end. Because there would always be birds trapped in cages beneath the stone, and there would always be apprentices needing to perfect their healing skills. That was their fate. That was our fate. We should resign ourselves to it; anything else would only lead to more suffering.  
  
But what a sight it had been to see them soar through the window.  
  
Birds of a feather. Feathers worn as a reminder and a challenge that nobody but me understood. Nobody else needs to. Some things are private.  
  
"Thank you," I whisper in Wynne’s ear as I let her go. Not just for the hug but for making things bearable. For understanding. For being the closest thing I ever had to a mother.  
  
"You’re welcome," she says, and maybe it is just me, but she sounds almost moved. "Would you like some tea?"  
  
"Tea and interrogation?" I ask, the smile creeping unbidden to my lips.  
  
"My dear boy, I am old enough by now that nobody tells me how to do things. If I choose to serve tea and biscuits during my interrogations, then by the Maker, that is what I will do."  
  
"Now I realize why they never put you in charge of the corrective branch of the circle," I say, sitting down on the offered chair. "You would have us all reformed into good lads in no time, leaving them all out of a job."  
  
"Oh shush," she says, but doesn’t sound all that displeased at my words. "We should not treat this matter lightly."  
  
She pours the tea, two steaming cups together with dry Ferelden biscuits. The kind that needs to be dipped to be edible, somehow I imagined that things would be more opulent in a royal palace.   
  
"It is easier if you ask," I start, looking at her where she sits across from me. It’s not like I don’t have a million questions myself, chief amongst them what the glow is that I caught a glimpse of at the back of her eyes when we hugged. But she’s not the one that’s here to answer for anything, and so my curiosity will have to wait.  
  
"Anders," she says rather sadly. "I don’t even know where to start."  
  
And so I tell her. Everything. I tell her of my last escape. Of being taken in by the Warden Commander. I tell her of the joining and of Justice. I tell her of the Architect and his quest to change the very nature of the darkspawn and how Amell choose to let him live. I tell her that was the first time I actually felt ashamed of myself and what I had wrought, that a darkspawn would walk down the very path of change I feared to thread.   
  
I talk, and I sip my tea and I try to make her understand why I took the step I did. Why I chose to become an abomination. Why I chose to merge with Justice and risk both our sanity in the process. I try to make her understand, but I can’t even say that I do anymore. I’ve changed too much. I’ve become too used to sacrifice and hard decisions. Was there ever a time when I feared them? It feels like a dream, that I would ever hesitate to take a stand, to do what needed to be done.   
  
Maybe it’s just enough to tell her what I did. How I took the spirit inside me as an ally to give me strength to do what I didn’t dare to do alone. How I lost control and killed the witnesses to my act, not only Templars but fellow Grey Wardens. Overwhelmed. Afraid. Maybe it is just enough to tell her why I ran. Why I ran all the way to Kirkwall and never looked back, hiding in Darktown to try to make things right.  
  
And so I tell her of the other side of the blight. Of the refugees. Of people starving and dying, and of the weight of trying to carry too heavy a burden. I tell her of the clinic, of the Templars oppression, and I tell her of Hawke. More than I should perhaps, but he seems to be there at ever turn and twist in my story. The thread holding the tattered fabric of my life together. Maybe she smiles. Maybe I do too. Maybe there could have been a happy ending there for a little.  
  
But the story grows darker. Graceless. Ugly. Varric would disapprove, but he never really knew. Neither did Hawke. The secrets I kept. The things that happened when their backs were turned. The things I never told. I tell them now, to Wynne, and she pours me another cup and listens. I tell her of the dead. Their names. Their faces. The ones that fell to the Templars, and the ones that fell to their own fear and the demons within. I tell of the few good men who tried and failed to stem the tide of madness, and I tell that I had enough of death. Enough of death that in the end, death was the only solution.  
  
She does not understand that. How could she?  
  
My tale turns into my confession as I tell her of the chantry. Of its hypocrisy and crimes. But I cannot muster the passion I had when I spoke to the Circle assembly. Here in her study my words fall flat and I am left with the ashes of the dead. Vengeance consumes everything in its path. Perhaps I should have been its victim as well. Perhaps I still will be. Justice. The words are running out, as are the biscuits, so I end my tale with what happened in Tevinter. How I am now a free man once more. No abomination. She smiles a little at that.  
  
"Anders, do you truly believe you are the only one that has ever attracted the attention of the benign spirits of the fade?"  She holds out her hand and a gentle glow like fireflies crawl over her flesh, filling me with a sense of wonder I haven’t felt since Justice.  
  
"So that’s your secret for looking so young," I say, with more wit I thought myself capable of. "The other ladies in the circle are going to be green with envy."  
  
"It is a secret," she says, and the glow fades into memories. "Not many people know it."  
  
"I will keep it, have no fear of that. But what happened?"  
  
The tale she tells is no less wondrous than mine. It is a tale of a spirit of Faith being her friend since childhood, watching over her in the Fade. It is a tale of an old woman dying on a forest path, filled with regrets that she could not help to stop the storm that was coming. It is a tale of being saved, of being one, of being a different kind of abomination than the Chantry taught us to fear. A kind I know well, but with a happier ending. Perhaps Faith is kinder than Justice, or perhaps she is simply a stronger woman than me because her spirit has not changed its nature. It still remains there, keeping her alive.  
  
"How long do you have before it departs?" I ask, because when it does, Wynne will be irrevocably dead, caught on the threshold as she were.  
  
"I honestly have no idea," she confesses. "It told me that I still had a purpose, and at first I thought that was the defeat of the Archdemon. Then I thought that it might be the rebuilding of Ferelden, but the years have passed and I hear whispers in the Fade. The spirits are restless, and they are all saying the same thing."  
  
"Change is coming," I say, because I have heard it too.   
  
"It is." Wynne shakes her head and pour me the last of the tea. The pot now sits empty on the desk, and I can’t help but feel it is a fitting analog for me.  
  
"The Aequitarians have chosen a side at last," I say, looking at her. "They are siding with the Libertarians, as are the Lucrosians. The Isolationists stands aside as always, but circumstances do not give them much choice."  
  
"Do you intend to recruit me to your cause then?" She sounds almost amused, maybe even a bit flattered. "I am only an old woman."  
  
"A woman who looked the Archdemon in the eye and turned down the position of First Enchanter. A woman who was one of the chief voices of the Aequitarian stance. And, Wynne, you are really not that old," I add with a smile that can’t help but be a flirty one. Andraste help me.  
  
"Oh you smooth boy, I would be flattered if I had not heard you talk so much of your Hawke. You finally did find one whose wings they could not break."  
  
"You can’t stay here, and you know it. King’s protection or not, Ferelden is not a safe haven for any mage." I hadn’t been sure before, but I am now.   
  
"It is not often a prisoner suggests to his captor what they should be doing to stay safe. What makes you think I have any say in this matter?"  
  
"Because you would never let anybody tell you otherwise," I say, and from the look on her face I have hit the nail on the head. "This hasn’t been an interrogation to see if I am guilty of whatever horrendous deeds they heap upon my shoulders. This has been so you can see whether I am a crazy abomination that need to be put out of its misery or not."  
  
"You have changed," she says thoughtfully, and I am left to wonder whether it is for the better or worse.  
  
"I know you Wynne; you would fight tooth and nail to keep the apprentices safe. Does it truly matter whether it is from the Templars or the Darkspawn?"  
  
"It does, Anders, regardless of your beliefs." Her brow furrows and she sinks back in her chair. "But I fear that time has run away from us in these matters. One cannot hold a discussion with a hungry wolf."  
  
"You could always throw it me for dinner," I suggest with a cynical smile. "If you truly believe that talking is still an option."   
  
"That might still be the King’s decision. I do know that some of his advisors have suggested it."  
  
"Then I suppose I had better meet the King then," I say, emptying the last tea. "Since I’ve heard so much about him. It’s been a while since I met any fellow Grey Wardens."  
  
"I warn you Anders," Wynne says, and from her voice I can tell that she is serious. "Do not count on any old loyalties of mutual friends to sway matters your way."  
  
"I’m not," I say with a sunny smile. "I am counting on the King to see that this is the only sane choice he can make. I am counting on him to be a reasonable man."  
  
Wynne was quiet for a moment, and then she shook her head, softly intoning:  
  
"Then Maker help us all."  
  
  
…  
  
  
We meet later, not in the grand audience chamber but in the King’s personal study, shuffled off to the side like the dirty laundry we probably are. I’m grateful really, pomp and circumstance make me nervous, and I’m really not that fond of being the center of attention when I can’t tell a dirty joke to lighten the mood. Maybe it’s my imagination, but King Alistair seems to feel more comfortable here as well. He’s eschewed a crown and fancy clothes, and for all intents and purposes he could be just another Warden sitting behind his desk. He’s talking intently with a man I recognize from our brief meeting in Kirkwall, Bann Teagan. Talking about me probably. Telling the King what Wynne told him earlier. Too quiet for me to hear. They keep casting furtive glances in my direction, and I can’t help myself, the next time they do I shoot them a smile and a little wave that make them both turn back, flustered.  
  
"Behave," Wynne whispers next to me, and it is almost like old times again.  
  
I am about to say something back to her when the doors are opened once more, letting in Hawke and Aveline. Hawke’s face looks like somebody took a fist to it, and from the look on Aveline’s face I have a feeling it might have been her. Andraste’s ashes, if the Warden Commander ever thought I was bad with saying the wrong thing at the wrong time he would give Hawke up for a lost cause.  
  
"Ah, yes, all our guests have arrived," King Alistair says, slightly too loudly. Or perhaps it is supposed to be commanding.  
  
"Your majesty," Hawke drawls, his words slightly blurred by a swelling lip.  
  
"Oh really, Aveline," Wynne says with a sigh, leaving my side to walk over to Hawke. "I thought you meant it figuratively when you told me you wanted to hit him."  
  
"Oh she always says what she means," Hawke says with a shrug. "Nothing figuratively about her. She’s not subtle that way."   
  
He keeps looking at me over Wynne’s shoulder. I mime that I am fine, and he relaxes slightly.  
  
"Shut up Hawke," Aveline mutters, back straight as a lance and eyes just as sharp.  
  
"Pardon me your majesty," Wynne says, running her fingers over Hawke’s face. "I will only be a moment."  
  
"Right. Fine, that is I mean, go right ahead. We’re no barbarians here, no matter what the Orlesians says." King Alistair smiles a little bit nervously, but he keeps looking at me. Sharp eyes. I get the impression he’s not quite the fool he plays. Takes one to know one I suppose.   
  
Healing glow forms around Wynne’s fingers and Hawke’s bruises fades. I watch the procedure with interest; Wynne is still a master at her craft. Could I ever come close? Perhaps. Perhaps I already have, even though it feels odd to admit it. How many people did I heal during those years in Kirkwall? Far more than I would ever have encountered had I stayed two lifetimes in the Circle tower. What right did the Templars have to keep that from the rest of Thedas?  
  
"Now," King Alistair says once Wynne is finished. "Let us not mince words here. We know who you two are. We know what you have done. Now all that is left to do is to decide what we should do about you."  
  
Hawke opens his mouth as if he is about to say something, but Aveline elbows him and he shuts up. There is a look on his face I’m not sure I like, but I can’t exactly ask.  
  
"Ferelden is neutral in this conflict," the King continues. "It will remain neutral. I will not have its people put through another blight at the hands of their neighbors instead of the darkspawn. However…" the pause drags on and he rises from his desk. "I do not approve of the Chantry’s stance in this, but neither do I approve of outright murder."  
  
I flinch a little as the King approaches, stopping right in front of me. Suddenly I have no problems believing that this man faced down an Archdemon. I should hold my tongue, but when have I ever?  
  
"I am glad to hear that your majesty, because murder is what the Templars in Kirkwall were guilty of," I say, crossing my arms, holding my ground.  
  
"They were not the only ones," the King says hotly. "What were you even thinking? Your actions hardly sound like the man that Amell told me about."  
  
"I am still waiting to see if the same will hold true for you," I snap, because Amell is as always a bit of a sore point. "Yes, I started a war because a war needed to be started. And if you imagine you can sit it out on the sidelines you are as big a fool as Loghain!"  
  
"Anders," Aveline says warningly, taking a step towards me, but the king stops her with a gesture.  
  
"This is not a blight," the King says, voice raised and eyes sharp. "The Divine is not an Archdemon, she is just a woman. She can be reasoned with."  
  
"And just because there is a surge of darkspawn doesn’t mean there is a blight," I say with a groan, echoing Loghain’s words. "Look around you, your majesty. Take a long hard look at the world if your advisors ever let you know the truth. The war is already here. People are already dying. The only reason you don’t have an exalted march on the borders of Ferelden already is because you’re too far away!"  
  
"Too far away? Oh I wish that was the case," it is less King than Alistair that is speaking now, frustration bleeding through. "Orlais is breathing down our neck wanting to retake their lost province. The only thing that’s keeping us at peace is the fact that I am still unmarried and they hope to tie us to them by blood and not by sword. I am doing my best here to do what is right for Ferelden, and I am not helped by some insane mage revolution!"  
  
"It is only insane if you are not a mage," I do not say the word Templar, but I think he can see it in my eyes. He is a former Templar, vows taken or not. "I know you were trying to do what was best for the Circle here, Amell told me, but you also know what happened. You do not have the authority, only the Chantry does. You can’t free a blighted thing, no matter how much you want to. You can’t even protect your own citizens, because if they happen to be born a mage they are no longer Fereldan. Or maybe that is it? Maybe you are only interested in doing the right thing for Ferelden. Not all Fereldans. After all, nations are a lot easier to deal with than the people in them. They don’t bleed and suffer nearly as much."  
  
"Don’t speak about things you know nothing about," he says, giving me a warning look.  
  
"Then you’d better follow your own advice," I retort, returning his look.   
  
"Please," Bann Teagan interrupts, "Your Majesty. Ser Anders."  
  
I step back, letting out a breath I hadn’t even realized I had been holding. Aveline is hiding her face in her hand, shaking her head at our performance. Hawke doesn’t exactly give me the thumbs up, but the smile tells me quite clearly how he feels. Wynne looks as if she was not that surprised about what just have happened. Well, she knows me, she shouldn’t be. But maybe I still have a surprise or two left in me.  
  
"My apologies your Majesty," I say, willing myself to mean it because I do not need this man as my enemy. By all accounts he is a good man with his heart in the right place. "I should not have spoken out of turn."  
  
"Oh protocol," the King dismisses with a sigh. "You were not completely wrong. We are… a haven here I suppose. People fear the darkspawn more than the magic that saved them from it."  
  
"Then you know that neutrality is no longer an option," I argue.  
  
"But perhaps the semblance of neutrality is," the King says with a disarming smile. "As I was about to say before I went all kingly on you."  
  
"It was impressive," I say, chancing a smile myself, because Andraste’s ample bosom, his smile is infectious. "I was quite literally quaking in my boots, your Majesty."  
  
"I am getting better at it Teagan keeps telling me. I always thought that he was lying." The King gives Bann Teagan a curious look, and the noble shakes his head and groans:  
  
"It is a crime to lie to the King, your Majesty."  
  
"Good to know," Hawke says quietly, earning him another elbow from Aveline.  
  
"Now that we got all that out in the open," King Alistair continues, "here is what we are going to do.   
  
"Ferelden is going to stay neutral for as long as we can possibly manage. We are in no shape to fight a war with the Chantry, and we need time to turn as many of them as possible to our side. We have contacts in Orzammar, the Chantry is not the only source of Lyrium should some Templars chose to side with their country rather than their faith."  
  
"Faith and Chantry is not always the same thing, Alistair, as you well know." Wynne speaks with soft familiarity. I try to picture her calling him your Majesty, but fails.  
  
"I do know Wynne, and I think here the loyalty to Ferelden might win out. But we need time to plant the seeds, to subvert the Orlesian authority further. We might end up with a renegade Chantry chapter like in Tevinter, and we need to be prepared for what to do when that happens. We need time." The king runs a hand over his hair, looking towards me.  
  
"As do we, your Majesty," I say, judging his expression carefully. "We are not ready to fight an open war. What we need are safe havens for mages to flee to. Places where we can gather our strength and protect those that should never have been a part of this."  
  
"I might have a suggestion about that," Bann Teagan says. "Brandel’s Reach."  
  
"Brilliant!" the King exclaims. "That would be the perfect solution."  
  
"Perfect for who?" Hawke mutters, but falls silent after another glare from Aveline.  
  
"For all of us," the King explains. "Brandel’s Reach is reputedly one of the main raider strongholds just north off our coast. We really should have cleared them out long ago, Alamar is after all a part of Ferelden, but we have had enough issues with securing our mainland holdings. The islands are… a bit of a grey area. Nobody would think twice about ships coming and going, and everybody steers well clear as it is. Nobody has time to deal with pirates these days."  
  
"It is a funny old world when raiders and pirates are less feared than mages," Hawke says wryly.  
  
"It certainly is, Serah Hawke," Bann Teagan says, shaking his head. "But that is a sign of the times."  
  
"And all we have to do is to root out one of the main raider bases in the Waking Sea," I say, smiling a little as I do so.  
  
"You are planning to take on the entire might of the Chantry," King Alistair says, chuckling a little. "I can’t imagine that would be much of a problem for you."  
  
"I didn’t say it would be," I answer, realizing to my surprise that I actually like this King. Almost Templar or not.  
  
"Good, that is settled then" he says with a nod, turning to face Hawke. "Now for the other item on my agenda."  
  
"I am not going to like this, am I?" Hawke says with a grimace that makes me want to hug him.  
  
"You chose to serve your country once, Serah Hawke," the King starts, voice filled with steel once more. "I do not blame anybody for fleeing after Ostagar; we were all deserters after Loghain’s betrayal. That is why I issued the amnesty that any deserter could return and be reinstated with full honors and pay. Years have passed, but I have not withdrawn it. We need men, and we need them badly."  
  
"Not this badly," Hawke says, voice kept carefully level. "Aveline made a very tempting offer but army life is not for me. I never was that good at taking orders."  
  
"Clearly," the King says with an amused smile. "But how are you at giving them?"  
  
"What?" Hawke and me ask in unison, but I fall silent under Aveline’s withering glare. What in the name of Andraste is the King up to now?   
  
"You would be wasted as a soldier," King Alistair says, stepping up to Hawke who looks like he is on the verge of throwing up. "What I want is your loyalty. What I want is your blades. What I want is to know that when it counts, when push turns to shove you will fight for your country. For Ferelden. For your king."  
  
"Are you sure you want the former Champion of Kirkwall on your side?" Hawke asks, but his eyes keep looking for a way out. "I do have a bit of a reputation."  
  
"I know my own mind," the King says, and by the Maker it looks like he really means it. "If you swear loyalty to me you will become my sword in this fight. I have no intention to remove you from the war that you have chosen to fight. None but us will know that this oath was taken; I cannot afford to support the mages openly. Not yet. But when the time comes, all will be revealed."  
  
"And if the time doesn’t come, you can just pretend this never happened and cut your ties. Clever." Hawke scratched his neck, looking like he’d rather be standing under the hangman’s noose.  
  
"I do what is best for Ferelden. As should you."  
  
"I don’t have much choice, do I?"  
  
"There is always a choice," the King said, a bit more softly. "But in this case, why even hesitate? This is your country. I am your King. I am offering you a future other than being a wanted fugitive. It would take a fool to turn this down."  
  
"I suppose it would," Hawke says bitterly. "So how do we do this thing?"  
  
"It is customary to kneel," Bann Teagan offers. "Then simply repeat the words after me."  
  
I swallow hard as Hawke falls to one knee in front of King Alistair, lowering his head as if he faced an executioner, not a king. Why is he even doing this? For himself? For me? For the lack of any sane choices? I want to yank him out of there and spare him this misery, but the sad truth is that he has no choice. Not more than I do. We need the help of the King. Some sacrifices have to be made.  
  
"I swear fealty unto you, King Alistair," the Bann intones, and Hawke repeats, louder and seemingly without hesitation. I know him better than to believe that.  
  
"I will always hold true with thee in matters of life and limb and all of earthly honor against all enemies. Never will I bear arms for anyone against thee or thy heirs, not by word nor by work. And in the fray I shall ever ward your life, even at the cost of mine. And if to enemies you should fall, I swear I shall not leave that field alive unless I have avenged you. Your word is my will. Your wish is my command. In the name of the Maker I pledge myself to you so that any sword might strike me down should I break this oath."  
  
"I accept your oath," the King says solemnly, placing a hand on Hawke’s head.  
  
And with those simple words, everything about us changes once again.


	6. Chapter 6

Hawke wrapped his cloak tighter around himself where he sat, rain dripping down his hood. The dinghy was small and rode high on the waves, tiny sail flapping in the breeze. The four people aboard were just shadows in the growing darkness, an insignificant speck on an empty ocean, course set for the reefs of Brandel’s Reach.  
  
"Ahhh, I think our illustrious Champion has a hard time keeping down his breakfast, yes?" Zevran brushed back his hood, rain plastering his pale hair to his skull. "Give us a little more sail Anders, so we can get ashore before we have an accident."  
  
"I’ll manage," Hawke said bleakly, looking back towards the dark horizon. The blackness of the night had eaten Isabela’s ship almost as soon as they had left it, and knowing it still lurked out there was not really a comfort.   
  
He still felt seasick, alone and insignificant and Maker this was an insane plan. Granted it was his plan, but he still didn’t feel good about it. Even if the King had lent them what aid he could in the form of his personal assassin and covert mage, this was still a crazy long shot. But he didn’t have time to play it safe, not with Bethany gone, and not with what was happening in the rest of Thedas.   
  
"I never pictured the King of Ferelden being one to associate with the likes of you. Not with Aveline running the royal guard." Anders had adjusted the small sail to Zevran’s liking and now ducked down next to Hawke near the prow of the small boat.  
  
"Ahhh, this is where you misunderstand, Anders. Alistair is a most practical man at times," the blonde elf said, picking a course towards the distant shadow of the island.  
  
"And he’s on first name basis with the King," Hawke muttered to himself.  
  
"I’ve gathered that he is," Anders said. "If by practical you mean associating with assassins and blood mages."  
  
"That is exactly what I mean," Zevran exclaimed happily. "And he pays well. I do owe you one, Champion," he said, smiling at Hawke’s unhappy frown. "First you help me with my little Crow problem, and then you go help start a war that makes my particular kind of expertise be so in demand."  
  
"What can I say; apparently I help a lot of people." There was no bitterness in Hawke’s voice. None at all. Or he was possibly on the verge of throwing up.  
  
"Without getting paid too, such a shame for a talented man such as yourself, yes?"   
  
"Oh do shut up Zevran," Hawke snapped. "What passed between me and the King is our business. And ours alone." And he didn’t really want to think about it. Not now.  
  
"And whatever happens to Alistair is mine. He is an old friend you know." The assassin’s words had lost their teasing tone, one could almost imagine a warning there.  
  
"And he pays well," Anders said before things could go out of hand.  
  
"Very well in fact," the elf admitted.   
  
"I though someone was keeping an eye on me back in Denerim castle," Anders said with a faint grimace. "That was you then, watching me?"  
  
"Just an eye, handsome. To keep our lady of the bosoms safe while she evaluated your intentions. She did not know of course, she is, how do you say? Not as wise to the world as we are."  
  
"Or perhaps wiser. I might not have been so nice if I had known I had an assassin breathing over my shoulder." Anders wiped some rain from his face, but didn’t take his eyes of the Antivan.  
  
"On the contrary, from what I’ve heard you like that very much, yes?" the elf teased with a look at Hawke. "In any case, should things have gone wrong you wouldn’t be the first mage I had taken down. Gently of course," he assured. "I am not always a rough and tumble kind of man."  
  
"And your flirting is horrible, and still won’t work," Anders said with a groan.  
  
"All the more reason to keep practicing it, yes?"  
  
"And here I thought it was my pants you wanted into," Hawke complained, remembering their first meeting and Anders’ rather jealous reaction to his innocent flirting. Well, innocent…  
  
"Ahhh, now you are implying that I would settle for a single pair of pants, which is a silly prospect indeed." Zevran waggled a finger in reproach.  
  
"I would suggest a policy of no-pants for a while; I would have thought you’d learned after Fenris reaction when you went after Isabela on the ship. I’ve seen him shove his fist through people he does not approve of," Hawke said, not at all smugly.  
  
"Ahh, yes, that was unfortunate," the assassin admitted. "And even after I invited him to join as well. Such a shame, he is a magnificent piece of work, yes? Isabela and me could do things to him he have not even imagined yet."  
  
"Do you three ever shut up?" the fourth man on the ship finally snapped, unable to hold his peace any longer.  
  
"One day Jowan," the elf said sweetly, "you will find out what you can do to keep me quiet."  
  
"Oh wait, I know the answer to that," Anders said, eyebrows shooting up. "It involves dicks, doesn’t it?"   
  
"Most likely," Hawke agreed.  
  
"Definitely," Jowan groaned. "How did I ever get into this?"  
  
"By poisoning the king’s sort of uncle’s brother and being a repentant blood mage, yes?" Zevran supplied helpfully.  
  
"Thank you Zevran, for a moment there I had forgotten." Jowan hung his head a little, hood hiding everything but his unhappy mouth.  
  
"I aim to please. Though I do think we should be quiet now. We are getting close, and sound carries well over water."  
  
"Thank the Maker for that at least," Jowan said with a sigh.  
  
…  
  
It had all seemed so easy on dry land, hadn’t it? Reclaim Brandel’s Reach from the raiders. Set up a base there, a safe haven for mages who wished to join the fight. It was really nothing but a cold, desolate piece of rock with no redeeming qualities other than one of the most secure harbors in the Waking Sea, and a perfectly strategic location. If they could set up their base here they could strike anywhere, and flying a false flag as pirates they would be seen as an annoyance, not the important threat they hoped they eventually would become.  
  
But first they had to take the island, which was easier said than done. There was a reason why Ferelden had not really pressed its authority here even before the blight. Isabela had met up with them in Denerim as had been previously arranged, and she had been more than able to describe what awaited them. The harbor was a wonder, and the reason raiders had taken up residence here from the start. It was situated in a cave as vast as a dragon’s maw, big enough for entire ships to sail into once they had traversed the dangerous obstacles known as ‘the Teeth’. The rocks were sharp enough to compete with actual dragon’s fangs, and depending on the tide, they could lurk either below or above the waves. If you did not know where to sail, your ship would be stranded on the unforgiving rocks as surely as if a dragon had truly taken a bite out of them. The rest of the island was no better, the jagged cliffs and steep shorelines meant that no larger vessels could approach close enough to land, and the base itself was hidden inside the tunnels and caves that honeycombed the island. It was a fortress worthy of an army.  
  
But fortresses were taken a lot easier by stealth than by a heads-on approach.   
  
And so they were four. Two assassins. Two mages. Just a small group in Isabela’s dinghy. Hawke had initially suggested him, Anders, Isabela and Fenris, but had to bow to the fact that Isabela was needed to guide her ship with the rest of their men through the Teeth once they had sabotaged the defenses and sent the signal. And Fenris would not leave her side. Which left them two men short, and the King had blithely suggested lending him his personal assassin and his blood mage. He had expected Anders to say no, the mage had been glaring at Jowan with the anger he had aimed at Merrill before he got to know her, but he had not protested.  
  
Hawke knew the look too well. The ‘suck it up for the good of the cause’ look. He suspected he’s worn it since he’d made his oath to King Alistair. Oh Maker, what was it about him that made every would-be bloody leader want him on their side? Oaths. Blast it. Aveline had insisted on taking him out drinking that same night and he couldn’t remember the last time he was that drunk. ‘Celebrating’. Oh Aveline, he loved her like a particularly annoying sister, but she really did not get him. At all. Luckily he could also rely on her continuing to not get him, she had never been one for subtle cues after all. He had been so shit-faced in the end he didn’t even remember getting back to the palace, just waking up with Anders’ cool hand on his forehead, then sliding back to sleep in his arms.   
  
The next morning he had pretended that everything was fine.  
  
At least he’d get to kill something soon. The island was growing solid in the rainy night as Zevran gently guided their small dinghy through the rocks, following Anders’ guidance where he was perched at the prow. This could work. This would work. He could already see glimpses of light inside the cave. They’d be on dry land soon.   
  
Movement ashore. Sentries? Hawke gestured to Jowan, and the blood mage closed his eyes, focusing a moment before gesturing with his staff and the unsuspecting guards slumped down in an unnatural slumber. No screams of alarm. Yet.  
  
"Make sure the boat is secure," Hawke whispered, nearly inaudible in the rain. "Isabela will kill us if we lose it."  
  
Zevran tied the boat at the edge of the natural harbor, in the shadow of the larger ships. Two large vessels. Three small ones. Maker only knew how many crew. They were so completely in over their heads, but when hadn’t they been?  
  
"So now we split up, yes?" the elf asked, leaning down to slit the throat of the closest of the sleeping sentries. Jowan looked slightly nauseous but didn’t protest.  
  
"Yes," Hawke nodded. "You two clear the area around the harbor; make sure there’s nobody alive to sound the alarm. Me and Anders will head for the lookout at the peak. We’ll light the signal once done."  
  
"And reinforcements will come, I hope," Jowan said with a nervous look around.  
  
"This time they should," Hawke said, thinking back to Ostagar. Not the best memories to have right now.  
  
"Isabela will not let us down," Anders said with quiet conviction. "We will do this Jowan. And if you are unhappy with your position, things can change. You are not in the Circle anymore."  
  
"No, I’m not. But I still owe a debt," the blood mage said uneasily. "Still, thank you."  
  
"Think about it is all I ask," Anders said softly, then nodded at Hawke. "Let’s go."  
  
Once they had separated from the other two, Hawke whispered quietly to his lover:  
  
"Recruiting already? I thought you didn’t like blood mages."  
  
"We all make mistakes," Anders said with a shrug. "It is how we deal with them that make us what we are. Atonement is something I’m intimately familiar with."  
  
Hawke placed a hand on his lover’s shoulder, squeezing lightly, then froze as he heard steps in the tunnel in front of them. Footsteps. One man. Sleepy or drunk. Holding up his hand to have the mage stay back he slid into the shadows, readying himself. The man was dead as soon as he turned the corner, a hand over his mouth and a dagger in the back. Dragging him into the shadows only took a minute, and then they were heading up the stairs.  
  
Isabela’s map was hardly more than a rough sketch, but it led them on the right path. Tunnels. Ladders. Stairs. Up and up and up in the dark. In the dead of night they encountered few people, and the ones they did were dispatched with summary ease. Hawke was glad for the silence and the opportunity to focus on something other than what had happened back in Denerim. Still, it was hard not to imagine King Alistair’s face on ever man that he stabbed. No harm done. Just a bit of imaginary regicide. Man had to keep his balance somehow.  
  
Balance. The wind and rain hit them in the face once they stepped out of the tunnels, the path to the lookout exposed to the elements. Slick stones, a far drop, and a rather dangerous climb to the crow’s nest that was their goal. Hawke started up the narrow path, but Anders pulled him back.  
  
"Allow me, love." The mage tapped the staff lightly against the stone, arcane energies flaring to life with enough vicious force that Hawke took an involuntary step backwards.   
  
The mage swept out with his staff, sending a massive ball of fire flying towards the crow’s nest. It hit the wooden structure with the force of a giant’s blow, the flames that Anders had summoned consuming everything. Hungry flames. The rain did not matter. The flickering staff illuminated Anders’ face and for a moment there Hawke felt a slight chill at the look he saw in the mage’s eyes. Sometimes, when Anders was in the grip of his magic, Hawke felt that he was almost looking at a stranger. Someone he could never reach or truly understand. Someone beyond him.  
  
Still. He’d stabbed four men on the way up and enjoyed it, who was he to judge?   
  
"Guess that takes care of the signal as well," he said, attempting to lighten his mood. "Handy."  
  
"I was starting to feel like you only kept me around for my good looks," Anders joked back.  
  
"Oh you should be so lucky," Hawke said, clapping the mage on his shoulder. "Once the subtle things are over, you can let loose all you want." They both could. Maker knew he needed it.  
  
…  
  
It was funny really how quickly you fell into the swing of things. They had found their way back to the rendezvous point without incident, meeting up with Zevran and Jowan. The plan was simple enough, Isabela, Fenris and her crew would land and start their assault from the front while they attached from within the base, sowing confusion and chaos as they went. Superior numbers mattered little in tunnels and caves; there were too many choke points and narrow passages to bring them to bear. If there was anything they had experience in by now it was underground fighting, between the wounded coast, the deep roads and the tunnels under Kirkwall Hawke felt like he’d spent more time fighting surrounded by stone than up in the fresh air. Apparently he was not alone in that.  
  
Fighting with Zevran felt all too natural. Like Isabela, the assassin understood instinctively what he was about to do, combat turned into a game of teasing and violent bloodshed. He could set up a raider and roll away, expecting Zevran to appreciate the opening he had been given. He could very easily get used to this.  
  
"Thank you for the dagger by the way," Hawke said, rolling under the sweep of a broadsword, burying the Antivan steel deep in the man’s stomach. "It’s a bit sharper than your wits."  
  
"You are most welcome Champion," the elf replied, sending a throwing knife into the forehead of an archer aiming for their mages. Their weapons were dripping flame, sending shadows dancing wildly in the tunnel.  
  
"Oh please in the name of the Maker stop calling me Champion," Hawke said, stepping in close to a heavily armed warrior, pretending to be his shadow for a moment. Too close to strike, he could feel the frustration growing on the man as he turned and flailed, the rogue easily matching steps.  
  
"I should call you Hawke then, yes?" Zevran asked, leaping over a vicious sword sweep. "So deliciously personal, are you sure your lover does not disagree?"  
  
"Anders and me have an understanding," Hawke started before a new wave of men squeezed through the open door. "Oh blast…" Was there no end to them?  
  
"Down!" the mage in question screamed. The flames spiraling down the corridor a second later made them both drop and roll at the last minute, sending people screaming, scurrying around like torches before they collapsed.   
  
"I for one am glad to hear that. He seems a somewhat frightening man." Zevran dispatched a burning raider with a swift stab, pushing on through the smoking door. "Which makes the prospect all the more exciting."  
  
"Don’t get your hopes up," Hawke said, following a step behind. "He’s a romantic."   
  
"I’m a romantic," Zevran protested, lobbing caustic smoke down the hallway to confuse the people that charged them. "It is as if people think that just because you were raised in a whorehouse means you cannot understand the finer arts of seduction."  
  
"I don’t think the seduction bit is the one that is called into question here," Hawke said with a laugh, parrying a sweep, leaping back as Zevran drove his blade in the opening he had created. "It’s what comes after."  
  
"Usually mind-numbing bliss and a multitude of orgasms. Surely he can not disapprove of that?" The elf nearly slipped as the corridor slicked up, ice freezing and slowing their enemies.  
  
"Oh he does not; he’s just particularly picky about with whom. And apparently you do not seem to meet his standards," Hawke said with a mock-sigh.  
  
"You wound me Champion," the elf said, the last word with a particular edge to it. "But do I meet yours?"  
  
"Oh I am not picky, just spoken for." Hawke said sweetly.  
  
"Not to distract you two," Anders shouted over the din of battle. "But this is a battle, not a bedroom, and Isabela could probably need our help down the harbor. That seems to be where most the raiders have been running.  
  
"See, that I never could have guessed," Hawke said, then answered louder "They keep blocking our approach, and you keep icing the blighted door shut!"  
  
"Leave it to us," Anders shouted back.  
  
"We should most likely dodge," Zevran said.  
  
"I think that would be wisest," Hawke agreed, and as a man both rogues dove for cover just before a combined blast of flame and lightning tore through the doorway. Oh well, no need to worry about the door anymore.  
  
Sometimes he was very glad that he was on the side of mages. Maker help anybody who were against them.


	7. Chapter 7

The freezing gusts tore back Hawke’s hood, causing the rogue to curse loudly. Not that there was anybody around to mind his language, the wind stole both words and breath from him up here at Lonely Peak, the highest point at Brandel’s Reach. Pacing back and forth on the small stone plateau kept his blood from freezing, but toes and fingers were growing numb at an alarming rate. He couldn’t stay long, but Maker’s breath there were still no sign of sails out there. The ships were four days late by now, and the darkening horizon brought nothing but early winter storms that smashed into the rocky island with surprising fierceness. It would be bad news again. He hated delivering bad news.  
  
Not that he had any choice.  
  
Maybe he should wait a little longer. If his toes froze surely Anders could thaw them out again. There was something at the horizon that might be a gust of sleet, but something about it caught his eye. He peered intently out over the foamy sea, wishing he had access to the mythical Qunari looking glasses.  No such luck, but maybe… yes, that was a sail. Definitely a sail. And if they were lucky it was Isabela, he doubted many others would chance running ahead of the storm like that. It’d be a race against time to make it through the dragon’s teeth before the waves grew too high to make the attempt. But she’d make it. She always did.  
  
Hawke had a smile on his lips as he turned and started his descent. The steps cut into the rock were slippery at the best of times, but with numb feet a deadly tumble was never far away. Just the way he liked it. Things had been far too quiet the last months, not a fight to be had other than friendly (and not so friendly) sparring. At this point Hawke almost wished that the raiders they had cleared out had been more persistent. Like the Qunari. What wouldn’t he have given for a coastline full of Tal-Vashoth to vent his frustrations on? He should have been the one to go. Not the one left behind, and to the blight with the fact that everybody claimed that he was needed here. Anders could do this job as well, or better. He wanted to be out there. Needed to be out there.  
  
But he was not.  
  
The warmth of the Keep hit him like a wet mabari tongue, and the guardsman closed the door behind him with a questioning glance. Hawke nodded and gave the man a cautious thumbs up before stalking down the tunnel, his grin warming him more than any extra cloak ever would. Calling their makeshift base for ‘the Keep’ had started as a joke, but the name had stuck, and suddenly sympathetic refugees took to naming themselves guardsmen, and the ball just kept on rolling. In reality, this was just a former raider base, the corridors were tunnels, and the meeting halls were caves. They were expanding rapidly though, cutting through rock, connecting cave systems, and building overland pathways to tie everything together into a honeycomb labyrinth nearly invisible from the sea.   
  
Blast it. Now that he wasn’t freezing his ass off he was getting hungry, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to chance passing by the kitchen this time of the day. He’d be waylaid by people just wanting to have the Champion’s views on anything from the schedule of the guards, to whether the rations would last all winter. It was as if everybody believed him to be an expert on every subject, and even though he’d delegated such matters to people that seemed good at them, some still needed the assurance of authority. Or maybe it was just the fact that he wasn’t a mage that made him easier to approach than some.  
  
"Champion," a voice interrupted, and Hawke sighed and slowed down his pace.   
  
"What is it now Wynne?" he asked, giving the old woman a tired look. He had no idea where the spirit healer found the energies to be everywhere at once, but she managed to be surprisingly perky despite the fact that from her looks she should have been a kindly old grandmother mending socks in an armchair somewhere.   
  
"We are going to need to expand into the western caves soon," the white-haired mage started. "When the ships return there won’t be room enough to house all the refugees."  
  
"A ship is coming, but what it carries we won’t know until it’s landed," Hawke muttered to himself. Maybe this time the one refugee he cared about would be there. No, two if he was honest, because Merrill was a dear friend, but Bethany was his sister. Maybe this time Isabela had found her, or at least any trace of what had happened to her.  
  
"I have the utmost faith in our companions," the old mage nodded as if she could read his mind. "You will have news of your sister’s fate in time, there is no need running yourself ragged in the meantime. It matters little whether you freeze yourself solid keeping watch or not."  
  
"It makes me feel better anyway," the rogue sighed, giving the old woman a crooked smile. He wasn’t sure where she got her faith, but he was glad she had chosen to join them. "And we need to keep an eye on things. I can’t very well send anybody else up there in this weather, Ethan broke a leg last time he tried the climb."  
  
"And this would have nothing to do with the fact that up there, nobody can bother you?" She arched an eyebrow rather sweetly.  
  
"That might have something to do with it," Hawke admitted. "People want answers, and I’ve got none. People want leadership, and Maker knows I’ve been many things in my day, but a leader?" He laughed a little, shaking his head.  
  
"How little you know yourself," Wynne replied with amusement. "People follow you for a reason, Champion, and it is not because of your glib tongue."  
  
"People follow me because they have no choice, and I’ve seem to have misplaced my talent for unfortunate jokes lately" Hawke said, running a hand over his head. His hair was getting longer; he should get it cut. Was Anders right? Was he losing it?   
  
"I do not doubt you will find it again," the old woman smiled. "Even if some of us would prefer otherwise."  
  
"I live to disappoint you," Hawke smiled. "If you’ll go and prepare a welcome for the ship in case they bring any wounded again, I’ll go have a talk with Anders. See what we can do about those blasted caves."  
  
"Good. I believe he is in his office, trying to change the world." She patted Hawke fondly on the arm. "Be a dear and go and distract him before he blows something up again?"  
  
"Finally a job I can do," Hawke smirked, giving the old woman a one-armed hug before turning down a different corridor.  
  
Senior Enchanter Wynne. They had been luckier than they deserved when she had chosen to join their efforts instead of staying in hiding in Denerim. Unlike Kirkwall, matters in Ferelden had not yet come to open conflict. King Alistair was a known sympathizer for the mage cause, but he couldn’t afford to help openly. Orlais was poised to invade their old province as it was, any provocation could tip the scales and bring down an Exalted March on their heads. So far this was a war of mages and the chantry, not of nations and kings. Hawke had no doubt it was only a matter of time, but they needed all the preparation they could get. No sense in hurrying to their inevitable doom. Alistair… Hawke clenched his fist a little as he stalked down the corridor. The vow he had sworn to the king still left a foul taste in his mouth, it had been necessary at the time but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Too many people wanted to pull his strings lately, and one day he knew he would have to make a choice. But until that day he would continue to exploit his servitude to the king for as much as he could. They wouldn’t be here in Brandel’s Reach without him.  
  
This was their rallying point, the heart of the rebellion. This was where refugees were shipped, mages, sympathizers and their families, and this was where their forces were trained. No armies yet, that might come later. Just small groups of mages and fighters willing to go into the lion’s den and steal its victims. Just the logistics of running this place made Hawke’s head ache; he wished Varric was here. The dwarf would have been infinitely better at these things, but it wasn’t like dwarves were lining up to join a cause most of them couldn’t even understand. Hawke wasn’t even sure he did anymore. He felt like he had jumped into a river, helplessly swept along by events he couldn’t control. Blast it, he couldn’t even swim, he could just cling on and hope that the man he was putting his faith in didn’t fail and drown him.  
  
Oh Anders. He had wished this wouldn’t have been as hard as it turned out to be.  
  
For the people not directly involved in the events in Kirkwall, Anders had become a figure of salvation or of horror. If you sympathized, he was a hero of the revolution, the one mage who dared to go far enough, to finally strike out against their oppressors in any real way. If you supported the chantry, he was a monster, a murderer of innocent people, an abomination that walked like a man. Hawke wasn’t sure what disturbed the mage the most, the mindless hate of the devout, or the equally mindless adoration of people that knew nothing. It was so easy to dismiss the loss of life with a hand wave; if you hadn’t been there they were just names. Not even that at times, nameless straw figures burning for a just cause. If Anders himself had subscribed to that school of thought, Hawke suspected they wouldn’t have lasted long together. But the mage knew what he had done, and why. So did Hawke. Didn’t make it any easier to bear. He never liked being a soldier, but he was fast growing to hate being a General. The bigger picture never suited him.  
  
"Anders?" Hawke asked loudly as he stepped into the mage’s study, or whatever he was supposed to call it. Office. War room. Something to that effect. It was one of the larger rooms in the Keep, making it possible to fit the would-be leaders of the Resistance in here without having someone choke and pass out from lack of air. The massive table must have been assembled in place, and while it was pockmarked by burns and knife-scars from the previous pirate owners, not much of the wooden surface could be seen under the multitude of parchments, letters and maps that generally littered the room.   
  
"That is my name, yes," the mage replied where he was hunched in front of the fire, feeding it another log. The stone walls seemed to eat away the heat, even though most of them were covered with tapestries and cloth to insulate against the cold. "Did your head freeze so solid you’ve forgotten?"  
  
"How did you know I was up there?" Hawke asked, peeling off his damp cloak, dumping it over a chair.  
  
"Because you are always up there, and then you always come down to tell me that there are no news yet, and I have to spend an hour distracting you from turning morose enough to make Fenris look like a ray of sunshine."  
  
"Do you see a frown?" Hawke asked, flopping down in a chair, pointing at his wide grin.  
  
"No, that seems to be a smile in fact," the mage replied fondly, rising to his feet in anticipation. "I take it you have good news then?"  
  
"News at least. Spotted a ship, and I don’t think anybody but Isabela is insane enough to sail in this."  
  
"Finally." Anders walked over to Hawke, leaning in to kiss him lightly on the lips. "Maybe this time she’ll have some news."  
  
Hawke reached up and pulled the mage down in his lap. Manhandling the leader of the revolution wasn’t perhaps the most proper thing to do, but he wasn’t that concerned about appearances. Besides, they were alone for now, and he was freezing. Anders yelped as he shoved his cold hands up under his shirt, but relented and curled up against the rogue. For a minute or so words gave way to kisses, then the mage broke the spell and pulled away.  
  
"You arse," Anders muttered. "Do you have any idea how cold you are?"  
  
"I do," Hawke confessed eagerly. "And you are all warm and soft and if it wasn’t for the fact that we’ve got to be down at the harbor in a little I would have stripped you naked and had you on these furs by now. Well, after telling you that Wynne needs you to look into expanding the caves. Again."  
  
"I’ll have a talk with Jowan about it," Anders said, trying to dislodge Hawke’s hand that was doing its best to make its way into his pants. "I think Anitra is skilled enough in earth manipulation if we can just make sure the structure is sound enough that the place just won’t collapse around our ears."  
  
"Jowan and you are getting along I see, lost your distaste of blood magic together with Justice?"  
  
"No, I haven’t. And he knows exactly what horrors it can unleash. He made foolish decisions and now he tries to make up for them. We should sympathize."  
  
"We? You maybe, I haven’t made a foolish decision in my life," Hawke said with the straightest of faces.  
  
"You…" Anders started, then gave up in the face of Hawke’s serious expression. "Fine. You are a perfect flower of manhood, will you stop groping my arse now so we can go down and see what Isabela has to say?"   
  
"Your wish is my command," Hawke said, letting the mage go. Reluctantly. But it was for a good cause. He hoped.  
  
…  
  
The harbor was cold even though it was shielded from the wind, the raw damp of the ocean sucking heat out of everybody present. The ropes tossed ashore were stiff with frost, and Isabela was wrapped in white furs when she stomped down the gangplank.   
  
"Fire, Hawke, I want a fire and mulled wine and I want it now. This place is colder than a chanter’s cunt." The pirate stomped her feet and rubbed her gloved hands together. The cold winters this far south was not merciful to a Rivani.  
  
"Whose fur coat did you steal?" the rogue asked incredulously. "It looks like you’ve skinned an entire pack of those yappy little Hightown dogs."  
  
"Well, it’s not like skinning your mabaris could keep anybody warm now, sweetheart," she said as she hugged the rogue closely. "Do you shave them or did you accidentally crossbreed them with nugs?"  
  
"You insult my dogs, woman, you insult me," Hawke said, wiggling his eyebrows.   
  
"That was the general intent," she retorted. "Now whatever are you going to do about it?"   
  
"Nothing, unless he is more of a fool than I believe him to be." Fenris sounded about as amused as always, which was not much at all. The tips of his ears and nose were red from the cold, and his Lyrium tattoos burned brightly against the dark fur cloak.   
  
"Oh, hello to you too Fenris. I wasn’t groping her. Honestly." Much. Hawke let Isabela go, taking a step back to where Anders stood, looking pained.  
  
"You still have your hands," the elf replied evenly, as if that was all the answer that was needed. "We need to speak." If Isabela had been her normal jovial self, Fenris was enough of a thundercloud that even Hawke sobered up and paid attention.  
  
"Come then, Wynne can handle the rest down here," Anders said, leading the way. "Have you got any people onboard or just supplies?" As always there was a faint hope that there might be more mages, every person saved was one more he wouldn’t have to dream about at night.  
  
"Got five mages in fact, shit scared and frozen solid, but once they’ve got some time to unwind I think they’ll shape up just fine. I don’t think they dared believe we weren’t just pirates out to sell them to the Templars for bounty." Isabela laughed a little. "Can you believe that? And I’m such a trustworthy person."  
  
"Not just mages," Fenris muttered, gravelly voice a shade hoarser than normal. "They have families and friends as well, two score people in all. On the run from the outskirts of Starkhaven."  
  
"Apostates then?" Anders asked, the Circle in Starkhaven had suffered a mishap years ago and never recovered.   
  
"Four of them. The fifth was in the Circle but got away in the shipwreck back near Kirkwall. She doubled back home for her family and they have been in hiding ever since." Isabela peeled off her furs once they were back in Anders’ office, reaching out for the fire with a happy smile on her face.  
  
"Tell him," Fenris said, crossing mailed arms over his chest. "He needs to know."  
  
"I know," Isabela said with a sigh that made Hawke frown a little. "We have news Hawke. Not the good kind."  
  
"Is she dead?" Hawke asked before he could stop himself, taking a step towards Isabela, hands clenched.  
  
"No," the pirate said, shaking her head. "Bethany and Merrill are alive as far as we could tell. But they are ‘guests’ in the Starkhaven Citadel."  
  
"Sebastian," Anders said, paling a little. "Andraste’s ashes he would do something like this."  
  
"What does he want?" Hawke asked, voice hard as flint and just as brittle. "Do not beat around the bush, if they aren’t dead they are alive for a reason. He wouldn’t just sit on them for this long."  
  
"There was word out for those knowing where to listen," Isabela said, voice soft and almost apologetic. "You know what he wants."  
  
"Me," Anders said with that empty voice Hawke hadn’t heard since Kirkwall. "He wants me."  
  
"He has reason for his hatred," Fenris said, reaching for one of the half empty bottles on the table. "This is your fault Hawke, you should have killed him back then."  
  
Hawke was over the table in the blink of an eye, shoving Fenris hard against the wall, hands balled into his furred cloak. “Killed him? If you’d wanted to take Sebastian’s side you should have stayed in Starkhaven.”  
  
"I was talking about killing Sebastian back then, not Anders," Fenris replied evenly. He hadn’t even dropped the bottle. "You were willing to kill me after all."  
  
"He didn’t choose to stand against me," Hawke said, voice cracking slightly as he let go of the elf, looking a bit awkward. "Maker’s breath, I couldn’t just strike him down. We were friends once."  
  
"How reliable is this information?" Anders asked, hugging himself as if the outside chill was seeping into his very bones. "I mean how sure can we be about this?"  
  
"It’s legit," Isabela said, keeping an eye on Hawke. "I was worried that it might be a trap, but there were… notes scattered all over the free Marches. In inns and markets, on chanters’ boards and in the mouths of gossips. Notes that wouldn’t mean much to somebody not in the know, but… there’s not many ways you could misunderstand something like; ‘Has Sunshine and Daisy, willing to trade for Blondie.’"  
  
"Varric’s blasted nicknames," Hawke growled, sinking down on a chair. It felt like somebody had cut his strings and left him unable to stand.  
  
"Would he keep his word?" Anders asked, looking at Fenris. "You knew him best."   
  
"He would, I imagine." The elf looked at the bottle in his hand, and then offered it rather awkwardly to Hawke, who immediately put it to his lips. "He never had a hatred of mages, and as far as I could tell he was rather fond of Bethany."  
  
"We all were," Isabela said softly. "She or Merrill wouldn’t hurt a fly."  
  
Hawke nearly choked on the bottle, glad that Isabela had not been with them on that last fatal trip to the Sundermount. They kept looking at him to say something, but he had no idea what would come out when he opened his mouth. Fenris looked deeply uncomfortable, as always unsure what to do when he did not want to make things worse. The elf was not build for condolences or words of support. Holding his tongue or offering a bottle was the best he could do. Isabela on the other hand looked like she was torn between running out of the room and hugging Hawke tightly. But above all, she looked just the tiniest bit relieved to have this out in the open. He couldn’t imagine how tense things must have been, sailing back with these news. Not knowing what would happen.  
  
Maker’s breath, it was all on his shoulders, wasn’t it? His and Anders’. He looked up at the mage, who was staring into the fire. Anders looked like he had aged a decade in the last ten minutes; the frowns and wrinkles that had faded since they left Kirkwall were back in force. For a moment there he was brought back to that time right before the end, sitting in his Hightown bedroom, watching the mage tear himself apart over his manifestoes, secretly planning his own spectacular demise. And Hawke hadn’t suspected a thing; he had just felt such frustration about being unable to help the man that he loved. Nothing he did really mattered. Not compared to the cause. Were things different now?  
  
"It doesn’t matter whether the blighter keeps his word or not," Hawke finally said, looking at the bottle in his hand. His stomach felt like live coals. "He is not getting his hands on Anders."  
  
"But, love," the mage started, only to be interrupted as Hawke rose to his feet.  
  
"No buts. You know it. I know it. You’re needed. This is not just about me." Hawke felt as if it was somebody else that was speaking, someone not related to him.  
  
"She is your sister," Anders hissed, stepping up to face Hawke. "And this is my fault. A martyr can serve the cause just as well, you can…"  
  
"No," Hawke interrupted. "Don’t even go there. I won’t do it. End of story. I didn’t hand Isabela over to the Qunari, and I sure as the blight won’t hand you over to Sebastian. What I will do is get her out of there. Bethany is not worth a thing to them dead, which means that we have a shot at freeing her. Them," he quickly corrected himself.  
  
"I hate to point it out, Hawke, but Sebastian has most likely already figured out you would do something like this," Isabela said.  
  
"So it is a trap," the rogue shrugged. "To the blight with it. The day I can’t outsmart Sebastian is the day I’ll hang up my daggers."  
  
"Fine," Anders said, voice tight and fragile. "We can…"  
  
"Not we," Hawke interrupted, reaching out to touch his lover’s cheek. "Me. You will stay here because blast it man, I know you. If things go wrong you will turn yourself over, and I will not have that on my conscience. You are needed."  
  
"You need me," Anders pleaded, placing his hands on Hawke’s shoulders. "Don’t do this again. You’ve nearly gotten yourself killed enough times with crazy stunts like this; you’d be dead if it hadn’t been for me. You can’t do this alone. I won’t let you."  
  
"I won’t be alone. I just won’t be with you." Hawke hugged the mage close, whispering in his ear. "I will be careful. I’ll petition the king to bring Zevran along. They’ll never see us coming."  
  
"I won’t lose you," Anders whispered in Hawke’s ear, hands balling up in his coat. "I can’t lose you, Maker, there is nothing I wouldn’t do to keep you safe."  
  
"Likewise," Hawke whispered back. "But you need to trust me. You need to let me do things my way."  
  
"I hate it when you’re right," Anders admitted, pulling back a little. Resignation painted his face with bleak colors. "How soon can you sail Isabela?"  
  
"Give us two days and we are good to go," the pirate said, looking as if she would rather be elsewhere right now.  
  
"Two days it is then," Hawke said. "Let’s make the most of it."


	8. Chapter 8

Hawke stomped through the door to the cheap inn, red, bushy beard painted white with frost. It was perhaps not the most elegant of disguises, but the look of a man changed dramatically with a change of facial hair. Besides, Starkhaven was in the grip of an unusual spell of cold weather, and the beard had helped keeping him warm during their march north. Zevran had no such luck, and once again Hawke lamented the elves their lack of sensible body hair. No wonder they got along so splendidly with the Qunari, hothouse flowers the lot of them. Of course right now, said hothouse flower was chatting happily away with one of the girls at the bar, so Hawke gave the assassin a covert nod and stalked over to a corner table. It wasn’t long before the elf appeared, bringing beers and smiles as he slouched down in the other chair. Sometimes Hawke wondered if the assassin had a single bone in his body, he moved with the same liquid grace as a cat. Not that he was envious. Not even a little. He bet that he could still wrestle the assassin to the ground if he had to. Not that he wanted that. Not at all.  
  
"You are staring again," Zevran said, elegant lips quirking in a fond smile. "It is understandable since I am a feast for anybody’s eyes, but if you are going to jump me, we might as well get it over with before discussing business, yes?"  
  
"Found anything?" Hawke asked gruffly, ignoring the elf’s comments. Yes, he couldn’t deny it; he wanted to bed the smirking assassin badly enough to make his balls hurt. But wanting and doing were two different things. Anders had reluctantly agreed to stay behind on this rescue mission, and he had no intention on betraying his trust. Even if it meant suffering blue-balls and his own hands for weeks.  
  
"As a matter of fact, I have." Zevran pulled out a deck of cards, placing it between them on the spotted surface. "Whenever have I steered you wrong? In the end it is all a matter of finding someone willing to whisper a few incautious words in the wrong pointed ears, yes?" He had the look of a sated cat, and Hawke suspected words weren’t all he had got.  
  
"Wouldn’t have been a few nibbles to go along with the rumors now, would there?" he asked, but his thoughts were already shifting elsewhere. Bethany was kept captive somewhere in this city, and he had no idea what had happened to her. He should never have sent her and Merrill off with Aveline, even if the journey he and Anders had embarked on was fraught with risk. He would still have been able to do something. Save her. Stop this.   
  
Hawke scratched the bandage that covered the right-hand side of his face. The tattoo was, they had decided, a bit too distinctive, but with a stained bandage to cover the stylized dragon he was transformed into just another mercenary down on his luck, and Starkhaven had been hiring a lot of sell-swords lately. The tavern where they had set up their base was filled with them, and there was nothing at all to distinguish them from the other unfortunates that flocked to the city to put their swords to the service of Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven. Right now Hawke regretted ever fanning Sebastian’s ambitions for the throne, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Having a friendly ruler. Too bad the friend thing had gone out the window when Anders had blown up the Chantry and killed Elthina, which had become sort of a mother figure to Sebastian.  
  
Hawke could understand why Anders had done it, but that didn’t keep him from wishing it had never happened. Like so much in his life, lives like sand through his fingers.  
  
"You are not even listening to me, my friend," Zevran said, interrupting the rogue’s train of thought as he waved his hand in front of Hawke’s face.   
  
"Sorry, I was a million miles away," Hawke admitted, shaking his head. "What were you saying again?"  
  
"Well, skipping the part where I was complaining that no place this close to Antiva had any business being this cold, I was telling you that I had found a place where we could find a little sunshine in this freezing city."   
  
"I wouldn’t mind a bit of sunshine right now," Hawke mumbled. They had agreed to stick to nicknames and allusions, both of them paranoid that they would be overheard. They were walking into a trap after all, and would have to be as clever as foxes, stealing the bait before the trap slammed shut.  
  
"As would I. This place has the smell of bad news, though I hear the pay that the prince is offering is a generous one. And it would have to be, considering the amount of dwarven mercenaries I’ve seen around. They do not work cheap." Zevran started placing cards on the table in an imaginary game of solitaire. But instead he built walls and streets, an imaginary map of the Starkhaven Citadel and the route he had found into it.  
  
"Maybe we should pay him a visit," Hawke mumbled, watching the cards. Black for walls, red for doors, and face cards for guards. "If you think you can actually make this play work out for us."  
  
"What I do know is that a certain girl would love a midnight revisit, and unless my charms have failed completely she has revealed a way that I can get in without being spotted. I hardly think she’d mind getting two for the price of one."  
  
"I never realized how much of your work was actually done between the sheets," Hawke said, watching the cards move, laying out the route they had to take.  
  
"I was raised in a whorehouse, my friend," Zevran said, playing with the queen of hearts. "It is not that different from my current business, it is all about the illusion of control."  
  
Hawke was about to say something caustic, but instead he took a drink of beer and gave the elf an unusually honest look. “Do you think I am an idiot for doing this?”  
  
"Possibly," Zevran admitted. "But speaking as one who has not had the pleasures of family in a long time, I rather envy your devotion to her."  
  
"She’s my little sister," he said quietly, memorizing the route. "I’m supposed to keep her safe from things like this."  
  
"Ahhh, safe. I am sad to disappoint you my friend, but safe is as much of an illusion as control. You try to hold things too tightly and you will end up dropping them all. Shards everywhere. Such a pity." The elf reached out, placing his hand over Hawke’s, just the briefest of touches before he pulled it back again. "You carry too much."  
  
"Maybe," Hawke admitted, then forced himself to give the other man a cocky smirk. "Luckily I have the shoulders for it."  
  
"Shoulders it seems such a shame to reserve for one man’s scratches," Zevran lamented, flexing his slender hands. "Tonight could end up going badly, are you sure you would not reconsider? I am the very picture of discretion, yes? Nobody would ever have to know."  
  
"I would know, and that’s the blighted thing that comes with love. Guilt. Maybe one day you’ll get the hang of that as well." Hawke realized his words were perhaps too sharp, but right now he was not in the mood for games like this.   
  
"Maybe you are right," the elf replied lightly, though his smile tensed around the edges. "But I hope not. Guilt sounds like such a troublesome thing, I’d rather have other things to keep me up at night."  
  
"As would I," Hawke agreed. "So let’s stay friends and keep both our nights quiet and undisturbed."  
  
"You, my friend, are much more of a spoilsport than I was led to believe after talking with Isabela." The pout was almost endearing.  
  
"If you believe everything that Isabela says, you have far bigger problems than my dubious morality," Hawke said, managing an almost innocent look.  
  
"We both have," the elf said, looking down at the cards in front of them. "Now what do you say? Climb or crawl?"  
  
…  
  
He should have said crawled, Hawke lamented as he made his way up the freezing wall. Darkness had fallen on Starkhaven, and maybe the Maker was smiling down on them despite his lack of belief, because the moon was hidden behind thick clouds that both granted them their coveted darkness, and made the air somewhat warmer. Zevran was right; it shouldn’t be this cold this close to Antiva, not even in the deep of winter. The weather was off enough that people started talking. Blaming mages. As always. Sometimes Hawke wondered what the world would have been like if magic really had been as powerful as people seemed to believe. Creating an ice-storm in a small enclosed space was one thing, but blanketing an entire countryside in frost? Not so much. At least he hoped so.  
  
Maker’s breath, his hands were cold, and Zevran was fast. The elf was smaller, but that meant he also was lighter, and when climbing that made for all the difference. They had little trouble on their trek so far, the girl had left the side-door open as she had promised, but that only let them inside the heavily defended outer walls. Sticking to the shadows they had prowled through the surrounding buildings, stables and servant’s quarters huddled in the shadow of the Citadel itself. Hawke could understand why Varric had called this a pretentious city; the buildings rose towards the sky with confidence, here was nothing of Kirkwall’s lurking oppressiveness. Nothing here had been built for slaves, but everything for royalty. For prosperity. For show. Luckily show meant a lot of handholds.   
  
The creak from the window cut through the still air as Zevran forced it open. They both hung breathless as they waited for guards to either look up or appear from the inside, but the night remained still. Maybe Sebastian had the girls in captivity long enough that by now his guards were losing their edge. Nobody could prepare forever, eventually people would have to relax and decide that if nothing had happened for the last month, it wasn’t likely to happen tonight either. The cold served them well in that regards, dulling wits and senses. Still, Hawke breathed a sigh of relief as he slid inside, rubbing his hands together. They felt too numb to even grip a dagger, especially since the pair of them had eschewed armor to keep things quiet and subtle. You didn’t fight your way into a Citadel filled with guards and expect to come out alive.  
  
"Up?" he mouthed to Zevran, and the elf nodded, slipping soundlessly down the dark corridor.  
  
Inside there were more servants than guards, and their blades remained unused. Nobody looked twice into the shadows, the few sleepy men and women shuffling around their duties were busy with the drudgery of their own lives. And both rogue and assassin were more than skilled in staying out of sight. Up they went, towards the tower where they hoped that Bethany and Merrill were kept. It was impossible to be sure if their information was correct, but as they reached the last set of stairs, the guards there indicated that at least this was something other than just a storage area. Two of them.  
  
Zevran quietly pulled out his throwing knife, giving Hawke a questioning glance. The rogue nodded, drawing his own blade. The guards were armored, and they would make noise when they fell, but the area was lighted and a hidden approach impossible. They would simply have to hope that they were not overheard. Hawke held up three fingers, then two, then one.  
  
Both knives flew as one, each hitting a guard squarely in the throat. The choked gurgles were not loud, and as a man they sprinted forth to catch the folding men, trying to keep the noise to a minimum. A pike still clattered to the stones, the metal clang impossibly loud in the still darkness. But no cry of alarm. No other guards streaming forth. Hawke held the twitching guard as he died, just a kid really, making the unfortunate decision to serve the Prince of Starkhaven. He supposed he should feel bad about it, and maybe he did. But they had little choice in the matter.  
  
Once the guards were stacked in the deepest shadows they could find, they quickly climbed the stairs which ended in a rather imposing metal door, far newer than the walls that surrounded it. The surface was carved with intricate patterns that he guessed were wards, Anders had spoken more than once of certain areas in the Circle Tower being warded so that no magic could be used there. From what he had said, certain Templars wanted the entire tower blanketed in them, but they were far too expensive. Sebastian would have had to spend a fortune on this thing.  
  
Swallowing hard, Hawke hunched in front of the warded door, mouth suddenly dry with nervousness. Not because of the lock, the wards on the surface of the door might protect against the use of magic, but there was nothing unnatural about his fingers or his lock picks. He would get it to open, no doubt about that. It was what lay on the other side that filled him with dread and anticipation. What if their information was wrong? This could just be a normal bedroom, empty of anything of significance. Or Bethany could be there, but in a bad shape. He wasn’t sure what he feared the most.  
  
The click as the lock opened nearly made both of them jump, and Hawke had to stifle a nervous and very inappropriate giggle.   
  
"Inside?" Zevran mouthed, and Hawke nodded.  
  
With a hand of his dagger he eased the door open, slipping inside, shadowed by the elf.  
  
The room was more spacious than Hawke had imagined. Though shrouded in darkness and with bars covering the windows, it smelled of clean floors and was surprisingly well furnished. It looked to be a sitting room of sorts, with smaller doors at each end that might be adjoining bedrooms. Motioning to Zevran to keep an eye on the door, Hawke moved quietly across the lush carpet, edging one of the smaller doors open. It was indeed a bedroom, and thank the maker it was not an empty one. A cloud of dark hair was spread across the pillow, and a woman’s sleeping face could just be made out in the dim light from the window.  
  
Bethany.  
  
Hawke cautiously approached the bed, kneeling down next to his sister. It didn’t seem like she had been hurt, if anything she looked almost peaceful. Innocent. Very gently he reached out, shaking her shoulder with one hand, covering her mouth with the other. He didn’t need to have her waking up with a scream on her lips. Instead her eyes flew open, and she bit down hard, making Hawke suck in his breath to keep from screaming. Fear turned to recognition, and the rogue pulled back his palm, rubbing it fiercely. She had nearly drawn blood.  
  
"Ian," she gasped, keeping her voice down as she pulled him in for a hug. Occasional disagreements and resentment aside, there was still love there.  
  
"Hey there," Hawke whispered back, feeling himself tear up. Just slightly. It wasn’t like he was crying. At all. "How are you?"  
  
"Better now," she whispered, keeping a tight hold on him. "Sebastian might be a perfect gentleman as a host, but I don’t appreciate being locked up in warded quarters. The Gallows were bad enough." Her voice had grown a little bit harder. The Gallows had been the first wedge driven between them, when Hawke had forbidden her to go into the deep roads and she had ended up being taken by the Templars instead. Torn away to a completely new and different life.  
  
"I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner," Hawke said, tightening his embrace. Guilt had an odd flavor when his sister was concerned, they had always been close, right up until that night during the Qunari attack when he had saved her life unknowingly and found out that he had lost her to Orsino. "I didn’t know what had happened until recently, we feared you were dead. How are you feeling?"  
  
"Nauseous," Bethany said, as she wriggled in his arms. "And needing to breathe."   
  
"Oh, sorry," Hawke said, releasing her. He scratched his beard, looking around the dark room. "Is Merrill here too?"  
  
"She’s sleeping in the other room. Oh Maker I am so glad to see you," she admitted, "but you are an idiot to have come here. You know that Sebastian is only keeping us to get to you and Anders."  
  
"Mostly Anders I assume."  
  
"True, but he is not too happy with you either," Bethany cautioned as she slipped out of bed. "Is Anders here?"  
  
"Maker, no, he isn’t. I’m not that much of a fool. It’s just me and Zevran. Whom you have yet to meet, so do me a favor and disregard all his flirting? He is like that with everybody."  
  
"That is very flattering," Bethany said dryly.  
  
"Blast it, I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it." Hawke scratched the back of his head with a sheepish grin. "You will know what I mean in a minute."  
  
"Let me put on something other than my nightgown first, since I assume you have a plan to actually get me out of here?" The words were filled with that unfamiliar dry humor she had developed during her stay in the Gallows. Sunshine came with a side of rain these days.  
  
"Sort of. Dress warmly, it’s chilly out there." That was the understatement of the year. "I’m almost afraid to ask, but what about Woffles?"  
  
That made Bethany pause, hugging herself quietly. Hawke wanted to reach out and comfort her, but something in the set of her shoulders made him keep his distance.  
  
"Him and Feathers attacked the mercenaries that captured us. I saw him take a spear in the side, then everything went black. They had Templars." She spoke the name with a hardness that he had only previously associated with Anders.  
  
"Feathers?"   
  
"Merrill’s mabari pup. Crazy little monster." She said the words so fondly.  
  
"Merrill? Bonding with a mabari? I didn’t think she could do that." Hawke shook his head, what was the world coming to? And where had they ended up getting a mabari pup anyway? And was Woffles really dead? The dog had been old, but still… the pain was acute enough to make him frown.  
  
"Why? Because she is an elf?" Bethany turned with her arms crossed, thunder on her brow. She had caught his look, but misread the cause.  
  
"Blast it, that’s not what I meant and…" Hawke sighed, then shrugged. "I’ll just go wake her, alright?"  
  
"You do that," she said, opening a small closet filled with a wide variety of less than practical gowns. "And Ian?" She waited until her brother had turn around to give him the warmest of her many smiles. "Thank you. I never doubted you would come. And neither did Sebastian," she cautioned.  
  
"I know," Hawke said, wondering if she really had that much fate in him. He had never come for her before after all, had resigned himself to her fate in the Circle even though he’d wanted to tear the blasted place down and level it to the ground. "I’m just hoping that he has no idea it would be tonight of all nights. It’s cold as the wilds out there."  
  
Hawke hoped so very badly that the words he spoke were the truth rather than a vain hope that for once things might go according to plan.  
  
…  
  
"So what is the plan? Merrill asked, eyes nearly black in the darkness. "Oh, I do hope it involves griffons."  
  
"I’m sorry Merrill, no griffons this time, just an awful lot of sneaking." Hawke always felt slightly awkward around the shortish elf, they hadn’t been exactly the best of friends. Oh, he loved being around her and found her to be one of the more genuinely nice people he had ever met, but that blasted mirror… his refusal to help her had led to tear-filled arguments he didn’t want to repeat. It wasn’t that he wanted to hurt her, rather the opposite in fact. But blood magic and deals with demons and magic mirrors, that just never ended well or so Anders had told him. And he had been right. Something had broken inside them both on the slopes of the Sundermount, surrounded by the dead of her clan.  
  
Obsessions always turned bad in the end.  
  
"Ahhh, but had I known you wanted griffons my ladies, I am sure we would have found the time to spirit some forth, yes? Some of my dearest friends are Grey Wardens." Zevran sketched a bow at the Dalish girl, taken in by her deceptive innocence. Hawke wondered if he should warn him that while Merrill might look like a Daisy, she was in fact one of those flowers that looked all innocent, and then turned into a deathtrap for any fly landing on it. "As it is I fear it involve an awful amount of crawling through rather smelly places."  
  
"Is that how you got in?" Bethany asked, tying back her hair. She had a no nonsense approach to this whole escape that actually made Hawke feel a lot more confident about things. He wasn’t sure when his little sister had grown up to be a woman that looked every inch as competent as him, but he felt slightly sad that he hadn’t been around to see it.  
  
"We climbed," Hawke admitted. "But there is no blighted way we are getting you two down that path. At least not unless we want our plan to include a lot of falling."  
  
"Ooooh, no, I would rather not," Merrill said, ears twitching a little.  
  
"So crawling it is," Zevran supplied, taking one final look around the room. "But have no fear my ladies, we will keep your lovely selves safe from harm."  
  
"I am sure," Bethany said with a straight face, though one of her eyebrows arched in a slight ‘I know what you mean now’ towards Hawke.   
  
"How soon will you be able to work your magics once you’ve out of this room?" Hawke would feel a lot better having two powerful mages on their side, especially since their chances of being discovered were far greater going out than in.  
  
"Don’t count on it," Bethany said, flexing her palms a little. "Sebastian… we have been fed diluted magebane when staying here. Not enough to truly debilitate, but he wanted to make sure."  
  
"Magebane?" Hawke asked, feeling his guts grow cold. "That’s a poison, to the blighted deep roads with that man; he’s not getting away with doing that to my sister." No wonder Bethany had been feeling nauseous, he’d helped Anders more than once after being dosed with the stuff, and the results weren’t pretty. To have even low doses over such an extended time… he couldn’t even imagine. Sebastian would pay for that.  
  
"I know that look Ian, and don’t." Bethany sounded surprisingly determined to defend the prince’s life. "Sebastian only did what he thought was right, we are both fine. So let’s just go before something bad happens."  
  
"I would agree with the lovely lady," Zevran said, unsheathing his blades once more. "Revenge is a tasty dish, but far sweeter is the air of freedom, yes?"  
  
"Fine," the rogue muttered. "You take point Zevran, I bring up the rear. Let’s get out of here."  
  
…  
  
It all felt too easy, Hawke thought to himself as they made their way towards the Citadel’s cellars with only a minimum of bloodshed and no alarms raised. Bethany had spoken the truth, neither she nor Merrill was much use with their magic, but they had only encountered scattered guards, not wholesale patrols. He wasn’t sure why Bethany seemed so disturbed at their deaths, had he been trapped for months he would cheered for every drop of blood spilled. Well, perhaps not cheered, but at the very least not frowned like she would break out in protest at any moment now and ruin their quiet escape.  
  
But she did not. One of the guards did instead.  
  
It was an unfortunate fluke really, a door opened at the wrong moment, the guard behind it awake enough to yell for backup. He died seconds later, but by then it was too late, and the surge of guards from the room told Hawke that it hadn’t just been a latrine or something. It had been a barracks.   
  
Maker’s breath but they were screwed.  
  
"Run!" Hawke yelled, pushing Bethany back as he kicked the door, catching one of the guards in the face. "Get moving Zevran!"  
  
"The time for quiet is over I assume," the former Crow assassin seemed almost happy about that as he lobbed a smoke bomb down the hallway, thick noxious smoke quickly filling the air.  
  
"I liked the quiet," Merrill lamented, eyes wide as she tried to call on her magic to help. The air shimmered and pebbles pelted the confused guards, but like Bethany, she had no power to speak of under the influence of magebane.  
  
"Show them the quick way out Zevran," Hawke snapped. "I’ll guard the rear." He didn’t look over his shoulder to see if the elf obeyed him, he was far too busy parrying the first pike, slicing the guard’s throat open in retaliation before leaping back. Luckily the corridor was narrow, and numbers couldn’t really be brought to bear. Not yet. They still had time.  
  
Next to him Bethany had grabbed a spear, jabbing the pointed end in the stomach of a guard. Spear or staff, she might be a mage but she was also the little sister of two quarrelsome brothers. You learned how to fight then, in backyard battles where no rules but the children’s own applied.   
  
Sometimes children were cruel.  
  
"See, now I am glad you never tried to rescue me from the Gallows," she gasped, frowning hard as she pulled together what magic she could muster, slowing the approaching men.  
  
"What? I’ll let you know this was a perfectly fine plan before it turned blighted," Hawke protested, pulling out a bottle, tossing it to the floor. "Fire? Please?"  
  
"I’m not Anders," she protested, "But I’ll give you fire if you want to." The flicker was a small one, but it caught the flammable oil, filling the corridor with roiling smoke and flames. Bethany leapt back, shielding her face. "Maker, what do you keep in those things?"  
  
"This and that," Hawke said with a laugh, because despite it all it was great fighting next to her again. He had missed her a lot more than he had allowed himself to admit. "Flammable this and that."  
  
"One day you’ll set fire to your balls, and won’t have a handy healer around," she cautioned as they ran back, Hawke pausing to throw another bottle at the fire, keeping the flames alive.  
  
"You said balls," he remarked, giving his sister a surprised look. "The worm has indeed turned."  
  
"I’m not a little girl anymore," Bethany said, turning the corner. Zevran and Merrill were just up ahead, and so far there was no sign of guards in that direction. "Maybe one day you will realize that, big brother."  
  
"Maybe. One day." Hawke tried to get his bearings; they were in a larger corridor near the outer walls of the Citadel itself. He could smell the fresh air; the distant portal must lead outside. If they escaped into the courtyard, chances were the door from which they entered might still be unlocked. And once they were free of the walls, they had the rest of their escape planned. This might actually work.  
  
The creak from the ceiling alerted him just in time, and he pushed Bethany forward the moment before the massive metal portcullis came crashing down. Separating them.  
  
"Blast it," Hawke grabbed the bars, trying to lift it, but even with the others rushing back to help, it was far too heavy to budge, and the bars too close for him to slip through. He would have to find another route.  
  
"Zevran, get the girls out of here as we planned. I’ll find another route." Hawke tried to sound as decisive as he could; they had no time for an argument.  
  
Of course he got one anyway.  
  
"We are not leaving you here, Ian," Bethany’s eyes flared, and the smoke shivered, but she did not have the power to either lift or destroy the thing. "Maker’s balls," she cursed, kicking the thing.  
  
"I am serious," Hawke said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. "Follow Zevran. Keep Merrill safe. It’s easier for me to escape on my own anyway, you know that. Don’t ruin this."  
  
"He is right," Zevran said quietly. "We must run, now."  
  
"And you," Hawke pointed at the elf. "You keep them safe, you hear? And your hands to yourself."  
  
"Ahhh Champion," the assassin said with a slight bow. "So little faith."  
  
"And you," Bethany said, echoing her brother’s tone. "You get yourself out of this now. Don’t force me to come back and kick your stubborn behind."  
  
"I’ll be off as soon as you move," Hawke assured. "Now run. Please."  
  
And with one last look at her brother, she did. Finally.  
  
Hawke waited until they had disappeared from sight. The smoke was already thinning, as he quietly walked back around the corner, watching as the flames flickered. He had no idea how many guards were on the other side, but he knew one thing. He wasn’t going down quietly.  
  
Besides, it wasn’t like he hadn’t faced down worse odds in his days, what was a couple of guards compared to Qunari, the Arishok or a blighted dragon? These were just men with spears, and once he got through them he could fade back into the shadows and slide out a window. None would be the wiser. He readied his daggers, waiting for the moment when the flames died enough for him to brave them. No use in waiting to be rushed after all.  
  
Far better to do the rushing himself.  
  
The first guard cried out in surprise as he dove through the flames, driving a dagger into his throat. This was how you danced, in cramped areas like this they could not bring their spears to good use; daggers were a far better choice. Stay close, use the guards to block each other, sliding between swords and spears, jabbing when opportunity presented itself. The air was filled with soot and smoke, and Hawke was smiling now. No time for fear. No time for doubts. A blade scraped his ribs, but he caught the arm that wielded it, snapping it in an elbow lock. People were screaming. Arguing.   
  
For once he was silent.  
  
And then he was through the crowd. A doorway loomed black to one side, and he fled down the narrow stairs, pausing only to throw more smoke behind him. Someone fell, and a helmet crashed past him, rattling on the stone steps. Was he moving towards the walls or back inside the Citadel? He wasn’t sure, and had no time for doubts. He could think once he’d got an opportunity to hide, until then running was his best option. The arrow hardly hurt when it pierced his leg, but the muscle twitched up, causing him to lose his balance, tumbling down the stairs. Reflex had him drop in a loose roll, saving his neck, but he was still rattled and bruised as he landed at the foot of the stairs.  
  
The spears aimed at him seemed less than friendly, so he batted them aside, rolling to his feet. The second arrow pierced his other leg, and this time it did hurt, a burning searing pain that made him nearly topple over, only the wall keeping him upright.  
  
"You can stop running now." Sebastian’s voice. Sebastian’s arrows in his legs, a third one aimed straight at his chest. The Prince of Starkhaven looked less than amused, in bedclothes, sans armor, but the arrow did not waver. Neither did the dwarven mercenaries at his side.  
  
"If you don’t mind, I don’t think I ought to take advice from a man that wants me dead. Seems just the slightest bit unsafe," Hawke drawled and reached for his throwing knives. All out. Blast it. Same for his smoke bombs.  
  
"Dead? Far from it." Sebastian inclined his head slightly and the dwarves stepped forward. "I have no intention of killing you. So put down your weapons, give yourself up and spare yourself the pain of being beaten into submission."  
  
"What can I say?" Hawke shrugged, bravado the one thing keeping him upright on his bleeding legs. "I always was a sucker for punishment." The Bassrath-Kata was not meant for throwing, but Sebastian was not far off, and his aim was true. The Qunari blade tore open the side of the archer’s face, sending him stumbling back with a sharp cry of pain.  
  
A moment later Hawke was buried under an avalanche of dwarves.   
  
Unconsciousness came as a relief.


	9. Chapter 9

"Blast it, hold him down!" The heavyset black-bearded dwarf gestured with his hammer at the chaotic scene on the floor, where a handful of experienced dwarven mercenaries were doing their best to maneuver a bruised and bloodied rogue into the position their leader desired.  
  
The cell was lit by smoky torches and a brazier filled with gleaming coals. Booted feet shuffled in the dirty straw, dragging the rogue forward. The man in question was far taller than his captors, lanky and pale, with tattered pants cut open so the arrow wounds on his legs could be taken care of. No bleeding out tonight.  
  
"Not as easy as it sounds, Geir," a tattooed dwarf replied, face painted with duster markings that meant less than nothing on the surface. "The human’s as slippery as an oiled nug." He had managed to catch hold of an arm, but placing it on the portable anvil was harder.  
  
"Just like a Duster, always complaining," a veteran with shaved, scarred skull and bristly grey beard scoffed as he caught hold of the human’s short read hair, smashing his head into the straw-covered stone. That seemed to stun him momentarily.  
  
"Lucky you worked as a nug-wrangler back in Orzammar then, eh Beran?" Duster replied, placing the now limp arm on the anvil as the youngest of the dwarves scrambled for the heavy manacles.  
  
"Slander, vicious slander," Beran replied, letting go of insults that would have meant duels to the death amongst the stones. Things changed on the surface. "Is the metal hot yet?"

  
"Get the chains on that wrist and we’ll see," Geir said, "Harl, let the others deal with trussing him up. You grab the tongs instead."  
  
"The rivet seems soft enough," the young dwarf said, holding the small metal cylinder up to the light, gently gripped in the massive tongs.   
  
"Listen up, human," Duster said, as the body underneath him was starting to squirm again when they placed the cold metal around the pale wrist. "We don’t mind breaking a few fingers in the process. Just hold still and Geir here won’t miss his blow."  
  
"Your… concern is touching," Hawke said, spitting out a gob of blood as he tried to remember where he was. The moment he did, he wished he hadn’t bothered.  
  
The hammer descended in a precise arc, driving the glowing rivet into the manacle that tightly encircled Hawke’s wrist. No locks to pick this time, just a circle of solid metal, fused closed as water was poured over the soft rivet, rising like steam when the metal cooled. The burn was superficial since the glowing metal had not touched skin directly, but still stung. He didn’t dignify them with any complaints, just a quiet grunt as his captors wrenched his other arm out, placing a second manacle around his wrist. The struggle was futile but satisfying, resulting in a few curses and a bruised groin. Not his. But in the end the hammer descended once more, leaving his hands trapped, locked together by a scant foot of heavy chain.  
  
"Get his boots off," Beran ordered, and Hawke managed to get a kick or two in before his feet were freed, though it made his wounds burn like they were on fire. Sebastian’s little reminders. Hawke cursed as another manacle were placed tightly around his ankle. He tried to pull back when he felt metal, but the now familiar heat of the rivet and the beat of the hammer was nothing he could escape. He probably should have given up whey they grabbed his other foot, but he really wasn’t in the mood to be agreeable and managed to push back hard against his captors, nearly sending Geir stumbling into the hot coals.   
  
"Blasted nughumper," Geir growled, jumping back with less than dwarflike grace. "What are you lot? A bunch of bleeding knife-ears? Hold him down I said."  
  
The rest of the dwarven mercenaries obeyed as best they could between the spurts of riotous laughter. In the end Duster simply sat on Hawke’s chest, driving the air from the rogue’s lungs long enough for them to get the last manacle on.   
  
The length of chain trapping Hawke’s feet was slightly longer, allowing him to move at a slow hobble, but nothing more. The dwarves stepped back, surveying their handiwork.  
  
"Going to be blasted hard getting those off him," Duster said with something akin to sympathy. "Is it just me or is our boss getting more than a little paranoid?"  
  
"If you ask me," Hawke said, "paranoia comes right before madness, and Sebastian’s brother was more than a little touched in the head," He tried to get his breath back, rolling over on his stomach with a groan.  
  
"Shut up human, nobody asked you, and that’s Prince Vael to you," Beran snapped, giving the rogue a kick though there was not much force behind it.  
  
"I don’t think he intends to get them off," Harl said, surveying the rogue’s boots. Good quality leather. "Not after what this one did to the boss’s pretty face."  
  
"Don’t forget that he stole away his two price ladies as well," Geir cautioned. "He doesn’t want him to go running about, and this way he won’t do much running even if he could manage to get out of his cell."  
  
"We could cut just have dipped his feet in hot coals," Beran suggested as he dragged Hawke over to the wall. The rogue had stopped struggling for now, seemingly accepting his fate. "That would stop him from running anywhere for a while."  
  
"Why is it that everybody always goes for my feet?" Hawke complained, not protesting as a chain in the wall was fastened to the one connecting his hands. "They don’t smell that bad. I hope." He added the last with a worried look as if he suspected that this might be true only that nobody ever told him.  
  
"Maybe you should drop the habit of kicking people in the groin," Beran grumbled, rubbing his sore manhood.  
  
"There are a lot of things I shouldn’t do," Hawke admitted, "But I am stupid that way."  
  
"Hah, I like you human," Duster said, slapping his thigh. "Too bad you’re never seeing daylight again."  
  
"With this weather I’m not sure whether that’s a blessing or a punishment," Hawke muttered, making himself as comfortable as he could.  
  
"See," Geir said with a smile. "Why couldn’t you be this reasonable from the start and save yourself a lot of bruises?"  
  
"Well, back then I still had a chance to get a few blows in," Hawke said with a modest shrug. "Payback beats reasonable any time of the week.  
  
"Can’t say I disagree there," Beran said, still glowering at the rogue, who shifted slightly in case the dwarf would add actions to his words.  
  
"Let it go Beran. This is why you’re up here with us, you never think ahead." Geir gave the bald dwarf a clap on his wide shoulder, but only got a mumbled grunt in return. "And what are you doing with those boots Harl?"  
  
"Nothing," the young dwarf protested innocently, but a jab from Duster had him confess. "I figured I’d pawn them off to Erick, I’m two hundred silvers in debt to him already, and he’s not going to front me for another chance to win them back."  
  
"Two gold? Haven’t you learned not to gamble with that surfacer by now?" Beran said, shaking his head. "Blasted cheating nughumper."  
  
"We are all surfacers now, old man," Duster said with a smirk as he smoothed down his short beard. "And I for one like it."  
  
"Quiet," Geir snapped, his patience lost. "Clear the cell you lot, and take the tools with you. Harl you take whatever loot you want from the human, it’s not like he’s going to need it. Clear your debts to Erick, I won’t have one of mine beholden to that crook."  
  
"I will pay you back," Harl quickly assured as he pawed through the meager remnants of Hawke’s belongings.   
  
"By the stone you will," Geir muttered, locking the cell behind him when they left.  
  
Leaving Hawke alone in the darkness.  
  
…  
  
Days passed, at least Hawke assumed it was days, because he slept and he waited, and occasionally he was fed. None of the guards were as chatty as the dwarves had been, despite his attempts to engage them in conversation. Maybe they were sore about the people he had killed getting out. He couldn’t very well blame them. This whole affair had turned out rather differently than he had planned.  
  
At least he didn’t think the others had been captured. There had been no word about it, and thus he would continue to hold his worst fears at bay until he at least had something concrete to worry about. As if his own situation wasn’t bad enough. The dwarves had been thorough, there were no locks for him to pick, apart from the one that chained him to the wall. But even if he opened that, and the door, he would still have to escape hobbled like this, and that wasn’t very likely. He would rather spare himself that humiliating defeat. His legs were still healing, so he was better off waiting and see what Sebastian had planned for him. Bait for Anders most likely.  
  
Oh Maker he hoped that the mage hadn’t followed despite his promises. And that Zevran brought the girls back to the ship. Then maybe this would be worth it. He was the one that had got them into all this trouble after all. Maybe it was only fair that his decisions finally caught up with him.  
  
He hated when life was fair.  
  
…  
  
The light woke him before the hands did, rough massive hands dragging him to his feet as the chain that tethered him to the wall was unlocked. Qunari? No, Tal-Vashoth most likely. Sebastian seemed to be going all out hiring mercenaries. He didn’t bother to ask them were he was taken; there was only one person that could have any interest in seeing him after all this time. Sebastian.  
  
The Tal-Vashoth dragged him into a rather spacious dungeon, Maker’s breath, even the prisons in Starkhaven were ostentatious. He’d have to remember to tell Varric if he ever got out of here. Or saw the dwarf again. He’d give anything to have the smiling dwarven storyteller waiting for him here instead of the scowling, bandaged Sebastian.  
  
"I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me," the rogue drawled as his hands were hooked to a chain dangling from the ceiling, keeping him on his toes. One of the Tal-Vashoth knelt and fastened the chain between his feet to a similar hook, making sure he couldn’t kick anybody if they came to close. Too bad. Chains were actually rather good for strangling people.  
  
"You left me a reminder that would be hard to ignore for any man." Sebastian spoke as softly as ever, but there was steel underneath his polite words. Right now he looked less the chantry boy and more the annoyed ruler, one side of his face covered by pristine bandages.  
  
"Did I get the eye? Oh please tell me at least I managed that." Hawke knew he shouldn’t provoke the man, but the words came out all the same.  
  
"I am sorry to have to disappoint you, but you missed." There was an almost visceral satisfaction in those words. "The scar I will carry with me always, but it is a small price to pay for this bounty."  
  
"Oh my," Hawke said, wondering why there were no other guards here. But he supposed that four Tal-Vashoth would suffice nicely against a chained and half-starved rogue. "I’m sorry to disappoint you if you’ve finally decided to give up your Chantry vows of chastity, but you are really not my type."  
  
"I would have thought you might at least be serious at a time like this, but I suppose that was too much to ask for." Sebastian sounded almost disappointed as he walked up to the rogue, pulling out a dagger.  
  
"You never knew me very well, did you?" Hawke sucked in his stomach as Sebastian let the blade slide through his shirt. Cutting fabric, not skin. The touch was oddly gentle, the archer was a precise man no matter what he did.  
  
"Perhaps I know you better than you think. Where is Anders?" The question was posed almost casually as Sebastian stepped back, leaving Hawke’s shirt hanging open. "I could gut you like a nug."  
  
"You could have done that days ago, death’s not really that frightening a prospect right now." Hawke hoped he struck the right kind of bravado to convince the Prince that he spoke the truth. "And Anders is far from here. You wouldn’t really think that I’d be stupid enough to bring him along? Maker’s breath, Sebastian, you kidnapped my sister, held her captive and poisoned her. What kind of Chantry Brother does that?"  
  
"I never took my vows," Sebastian reminded softly. "In no small part thanks to you. I am the Prince of Starkhaven now, and she was but a means to an end. I tried to be as gentle as I could, but you brought this on yourself and your friends and family when you spared that murderer." His voice cracked, allowing pain to show.  
  
"You’re probably right," Hawke admitted, though he couldn’t shrug. His wrists were aching, and his toes were growing numb. "But that doesn’t change the fact that Bethany has escaped, and Anders is not around. Which leaves us where?"  
  
"I have no need of your sister now that I have you," Sebastian said, but there was a frown there that made Hawke doubt that was completely true.   
  
Hawke almost smiled where he dangled, he couldn’t have been sure she got away, but from the look on the other man’s face they were safe and far away from here. “So now I’m the bait? Sorry to disappoint you, I’m not really that important to him compared to his revolution.”  
  
That actually got a laugh from Sebastian, though it immediately transformed into a wince as the movement twisted his wound. “I should not laugh, but I do know you Hawke. And I do know him. He is a murderous abomination, but he is obsessed with you. If I provide him with enough incentive, he will come.”  
  
"He is half a world away," Hawke growled. "So it doesn’t matter what you do."  
  
"See this is where I do not believe you. I think that he is nearby, waiting for a chance to free you."  
  
"You are delusional," Hawke said, eyes widening slightly.  
  
"Perhaps. But I do hold all the cards here."  
  
"If you think you can keep me trapped here, I…"   
  
"Actually I do believe that Hawke. I was not always the man you met, and I am more than familiar with how men like you work. And men like him."  
  
"Oh grand," Hawke said, rolling his eyes. "The Champion of Kirkwall, trapped by a madman with delusions of grandeur. Varric would have a merry old time casting you as the villain, Sebastian."  
  
"Champion." The Prince of Starkhaven tasted the word carefully. "I do not know what you are talking about. You are a liar and a thief, a man who broke into the Citadel and killed a guard before escaping. And you will be dealt with accordingly."  
  
"What?" Hawke blinked as the pieces of the puzzle suddenly fitted together. The dwarves and the Tal-Vashoth. His secluded cell. Guards who never came close enough to speak to him. "You’re keeping me a blighted secret! If certain people found out, they might want to have a word or two with the Champion now, wouldn’t they? Maker’s breath, you’d be besieged by Templars wanting their share of the cake before you could sneeze."  
  
"True," Sebastian admitted. "Still, it does you little good to have guessed. Have you looked at yourself lately? You look no more like the famed Champion than half the madmen on street corners claiming to be Andraste reborn."  
  
"It’s the dungeons," Hawke said sadly. "They are not the best for my complexion, and yet people keep tossing me into them."  
  
"Perhaps because that is where you belong."  
  
"Oh grow up," Hawke snapped, patience finally at an end. "This has nothing to do with what I deserve. You just want revenge for what Anders did. Fine. I stand by his actions, so suck it up and do what you plan to do. At least then I won’t have to listen to you talk."  
  
"You are right," Sebastian said. "I do want revenge. On you. On your precious Anders. Which I will draw out of hiding. Do you know what will happen now?"  
  
"No," Hawke said with a deep sigh. "But you’re going to tell me, aren’t you?"  
  
"You do know what happens to thieves don’t you? I am sure you can imagine the rest." Sebastian smiled as he left, leaving the Tal-Vashoth to pull down Hawke, dragging him back to his cell.  
  
…  
  
"So what’s the punishment for thievery in Starkhaven anyway?" A few days had passed, and the guards outside his cell were dwarves for once, not as keen on keeping their distance as the proper Starkhaven soldiers. Familiar dwarves.  
  
"Here?" Harl asked, scratching his beard. "Not sure. You humans are odd when it comes to things like that."  
  
"Thievery nets a whipping and the loss of a hand if the crime is considered serious enough," Duster filled in. "You’re due to be whipped in the square come morning, so you might want to get some sleep when you can. After is gonna be blasted hard to get any, I can tell you that. Not sure if they’re gonna take the hand then or later."  
  
"Are you serious?" Hawke asked, but he had a sinking feeling that the dwarf spoke the truth.   
  
"You nearly took out the Prince’s eye, can’t imagine he’s gonna let you walk away with all your fingers," Duster said, not without sympathy. "He’s been having the town criers all over it for the last few days, thing’s gonna be packed."  
  
"Oh Maker, that’s just all I need." Hawke flexed his hands. His wrists were raw from the cuffs. He had tried to get them off, even got to the point where he blighted near dislocated a thumb, but to no avail. He was still here. A fly struggling in the spider’s net. "Don’t suppose you could be bribed to give a fella a shot at making a run for it?"  
  
"I’m afraid not," Harl said. "Which is sad because your things netted me a good profit with Erick, I’ve never seen him that interested in a pair of daggers before."  
  
"They are unique," Hawke said sullenly, fighting the desperation threatening to overwhelm him. Something would happen. Something always did. Maybe Anders had decided to be an idiot. Maybe Zevran had. Somebody. If this was the day they all turned out to be sensible, he was in big trouble.  
  
…  
  
He was, Hawke concluded, indeed in big trouble. The crowd surrounding the cart where he and an unnamed elf were chained was out for blood. Not much else to cheer about in a city half at war in the dead of winter. Maker but it was cold, they hadn’t bothered to dress either of them for the weather, and Hawke would like to think that was why he was shivering. No other reason. He wondered if the other man on the cart had really done anything, or whether he was there as a stand-in for Zevran, because rumors had it that there were two thieves who had dared breaking into the Citadel itself. He would have asked, but the elf looked half frozen with fear already. And honestly? He was finding himself at a loss for words.  
  
The cart ground to a halt, at the foot of a low platform. The pole resting in the center was massive wood, worn smooth by years of use and scarred by errant blows. Next to the pole, a wooden block rested, the axe embedded in it… Maker no, Hawke wouldn’t look at that. Instead he scanned the crowds.  
  
So, this was Sebastian’s plan. Make a spectacle out of his punishment, trying to push his friends into making a mistake. Probably seeding the crowd with soldiers, more hiding in houses and on rooftops. Templars scattered around the place to deal with magic. Hawke had to admit, it was a pretty decent plan. Had Anders really come here with him, he imagined the mage wouldn’t have been able to stay quiet. Unfortunately Sebastian had not counted on the fact that for once, the mage had listened to reason.  
  
What a blighted time to start doing that.  
  
The elf was yanked out of the cart first, and dragged up the low steps to the pole. Just high enough to give the crowd a good view. Somebody spat on him, and Hawke wiped it off, chains rattling as he moved his arms. So, apparently this would be dragged out. He wondered if the Prince was present somewhere, hidden in the crowd, enjoying the view. The town crier listed crimes either real or imagined; the crowd didn’t care and didn’t listen. They wanted a show. Street vendors pushed through the throngs selling refreshments, and Hawke looked away as the first blow struck. That didn’t stop him from hearing the scream, and the crowd went wild.  
  
Did Sebastian want him to crack? Did he want him to see what would happen to him in a few minutes? Did he want him to break down and confess and throw himself at the Prince’s feet begging for mercy and offer to betray Anders to save himself? Or was this all just dramatic buildup, the poor elf who got his back flayed just another bystander caught up in a war he hadn’t asked for? Hawke supposed he should be sorry. Instead he was just terrified. Maker’s breath, it was almost worse watching the crowds, their eager faces, the way they took bets on how long it would take before the elf lost unconsciousness. The screams. The sound of the lash. Funny really, if you lacked a sense of empathy. Hawke looked down at his hands. This was not how he had imagined things would go.    
  
The screams had stopped, and a bucket of water showered the elf, bringing him back to shivering consciousness. One of the guards grabbed Hawke’s hair, turning his head so he had no choice but to watch what was happening or be a coward and close his eyes. That settled it; he was shaving off this blighted hair the first opportunity he had, cold or not. He supposed he should have gone the coward’s route, but in the end he kept staring at the scene with morbid fascination. The elf’s hand was pressed down on the block, fastened there with leather straps, and then the axe fell and a collective ‘oooh’ went through the crowd.  
  
There was no immediate spurt of blood, just a dribble; Hawke knew that gushing blood usually was poetic license from tavern poets. In reality, the shock and trauma of the injury would make the muscles clamp up, giving people ample time to tie off the stump and burn the tip of it to seal the wound. The air smelled like fried nug, and the unconscious elf was dragged back to the cart like he had been one of the smelly little creatures. Hawke caught a glimpse of his tattered back, but it was the severed hand tossed down in front of him that made him jerk back. He could almost imagine it still twitching, and he was not too proud to struggle when the guards pulled him out of the cart. Not that it did him any good.  
  
Oh Maker. Times like this Hawke really wished he was a believer. At least then he would have been able to tell the Maker to go hump a nug and feel moderately good about being blasphemous. His arms were pulled over his head, the chain connected to the rings embedded in the pole. His legs were fastened with rope, making him unable to squirm out of the way. The wood was surprisingly soft against his chest, how many people had pressed against it, hoping to escape what was coming? He had no idea and probably shouldn’t think too much about such things. He had a better view of the crowd up here; there were dwarves in it, probably more mercenaries, and even… maker, was that a Tal-Vashoth? The figure was taller than any human had any right to be, but there were no horns hidden under that hood.   
  
Rough hands tearing off his shirt brought him back to his immediate predicament, shivering in the chill air. Would the cold make it better or worse? Probably the latter, because that was just the way his luck worked lately. At least there were no metal studs embedded in the lashes from what he had seen, just knots. Sebastian wanted him alive, not dead. Right now, that was a small consolation, because just as Hawke had suspected, the first blow still hurt enough to tear a loud gasp from him. Maker’s breath, this wasn’t going to be fun at all.  
  
Pain was not something he was unused to. Just something he could usually control. Being wounded in battle was a completely different thing, then he was fueled by adrenaline and the knowledge that he could repay the bastards that hurt him. He could run on a wounded leg, surviving the pain of every step by embracing it. He was the one slamming his foot into the ground after all, and he was doing it for a purpose. Killing things. Saving people. Same thing when the Arishok had blighted near gutted him. Either he embraced the pain and continued the fight, or he died and most of his friends with him. Control. There was no purpose here. No control. Maker’s breath, he didn’t even have to fight to keep upright, because the chains took care of that for him. The lash tore into his flesh again and again, and he probably should have screamed.   
  
Instead he laughed. Slightly hysterical, mind you, but honestly? Nobody would probably notice. This was absurd. Sebastian was torturing him for no good reason. There was no rescue coming, and no friends left to have his back. Not that there would be much left of it if the pain was anything to go by.  
  
"Getting tired back there?" he taunted, choking back a scream when the lash bit deeply into his already aching backside. Yes Hawke, that was the smart thing to do, antagonize your torturer.  
  
Maybe this was all part of his plan. Hawke would like to think so. Make him hurt too much to care when he lost control, and the first scream brought the crowd jeering. Make his torturer maul him so badly that he’d only feel relief when it finally stopped and he was let down in a bleeding pile on the platform. Make him not care when his left hand was pulled out, and strapped to the block, the manacle pulled back as far as his bruised skin would allow. Make him feel nothing but tired apathy as the axe was raised and then…  
  
… descended.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Anders' point of view. 
> 
> Cliffhanger? What is this thing....

_Four weeks ago._  
  
"I should have gone with him." I sound worried even to my own ears as I watch the ship depart. Am I fretting? I suppose I might be, because the look that Wynne gives me is far too filled with sympathy. She is probably going to hug me, and then I am probably going to make a fool of myself and say something I regret, and…  
  
"Do you trust him?" Wynne asks, putting a hand on my shoulder.  
  
"I do. But sometimes I wonder if he trusts me, not that he should, not with me spending years going behind his back and lying to him and…" Andraste’s ass, it didn’t even take a hug. Just a sympathetic touch. I must be closer to cracking that I thought. Better smile and put the mask back on.  
  
"Anders," she cautions, reaching up to turn my head around so I had to look down at her instead of at the ship growing ever smaller on the horizon. "That look did not work on me in the past, and it won’t work on me in the present. Do you want to talk about it?"  
  
"Not really," I say, because what can I say? I really don’t. But she’s giving me that look which means that if I don’t, she’ll keep hounding me for weeks until I crack and confess. Sometimes I long to tell her that I am not a pimpled teenager anymore, prone to stay up all night and write subversive poems to stick into random books in the library when depressed. I’m an adult now, I do other things. Like getting drunk. Or having sex. Neither of which has much allure now that Hawke is not here.  
  
"Let’s take the long way back," she suggests, her voice gone soft as if she had read my mind. Luckily she’s about the last person I’d imagine being a blood mage. "I want to se how the tunnels are holding up under the expansion."  
  
We walk in silence for a little, and then the seclusion of the chill tunnels makes me open my mouth. Talking. As she knew I would.  
  
"I worry about him," I start, because that’s not something anybody could miss. Except possibly Hawke, but sometimes he’s blind to the little things. "He’s changed."  
  
"People do change," she says, smiling slightly as she pauses, her staff lighting up to survey a crack in the tunnel wall. "Even doddering old women like me."  
  
"You are neither doddering, nor that old," I protest, running a hand along the crack. Fire and ice came easily to me, and lightning is second nature, but stone was always my nemesis. I can’t sense whether the crack is just a sign of shifting temperatures, or a dangerous flaw that can bring the whole tunnel down. Sometimes Hawke is like stone to me, impossible to read.  
  
"We will have to see about having this section braced," she fills in, sparing me the indignity of asking. "Have you told him that you worry?"  
  
"Not in so many words?" I try, but she won’t buy my smile. "I don’t know how. Things… happened in Tevinter. Not so very nice things most likely. He never talked about them."  
  
"Neither did you," she points out, the one that guessed too much. But without proof and accusations there was little she could do but being there when I needed it. Maker, it feels like a lifetime ago.  
  
"But we have already established that I am an idiot," I joke, shaking my head. "It’s probably nothing. But I wish I was there. I should be."  
  
"Why did you stay then, if you are so sure you should be with him?" Wynne leaned a little on her staff, watching my face.  
  
"Because he asked me to stay," I start, but I can see that she is not buying it. I sigh and admit; "Because he’s right. It’s the blighted truth even if I wish it wasn’t. If there is a way to get Bethany and Merrill out, Hawke and Zevran can do it. I would just be in the way, and a liability. And…" this was the part I hated to confess, but it had been giving me indigestion for the last few days, so I’d better get it out there. "I have other things I need to focus on. This… this place here is important. I can’t just abandon it and run off for my own selfish reasons."  
  
"I never thought I’d hear you say those words," Wynne teased. "Whatever happened to that selfish boy who was only in it for himself?"  
  
"He fell in with the wrong crowd," I say, and the smile is the truth this time and not a mask. "And grew up. Eventually. Sort of…"  
  
"And a good thing that is, because from the look of things you’ll have a few more issues to sort out right now." Wynne nodded down the tunnel, where Jowan and two of the newcomers were rapidly approaching, arguing heatedly. "Go solve the crisis. Stop worrying. And if you ever feel the need to really talk, you know where my room is."  
  
"I do. And Wynne? Thank you." Maybe one day I might even take her up on it. One day.  
  
Not today.  
  
…  
  
 _Three weeks ago._  
  
"No!" My scream sends startled cats fleeing from my bed. With Hawke away they leapt at the opportunity to sleep on top of me, something to which he had always objected. No pets in bed might be a sound policy when it came to mabaris the size of a grown man, but cats were a different thing. He’ll come around.  
  
He’s not here.  
  
I press my hands against my face, trying to remember my dream. With Justice gone, I’m once more at the full mercy of my nightmares, both circle and warden related. At least there are not many darkspawn out at sea, but there was a sense of something… approaching? In the tunnels and the dark. Another blighted deep road nightmare.  
  
Probably nothing.  
  
It takes me a few minutes to coax the cats back to bed.  
  
…  
  
 _One  week ago._  
  
"I am going after him," I sound more than a little bit frantic even to my own ears. "I should never have let him go alone."  
  
"I still think you should speak with Wynne," Jowan cautions, giving me one of those looks that makes me want to slap him upside the head.   
  
"If I speak with Wynne, she will talk me out of it," I explain, because really, he should understand how that worked by now. He knew Wynne, even if she had dealt more with advanced students than with mere apprentices. Maker, Jowan had never even passed his Harrowing before turning to blood magic, and why was I judging him again? The Harrowing was a templar tool, nothing more. And we were all in this together.  
  
"And you think I will quietly go along with your madness?" he asks, giving me another look.   
  
"Yes," I exclaim happily. "That is exactly what I think. I will go with one of the small fishing boats that are heading out for supplies, after that I can make my own way."  
  
"And you are telling me this why?" His gaze is so deeply suspicious it is almost endearing. Almost.  
  
"Because I need you to explain to Wynne once I’m gone." Really, it is so obvious he should have guessed it already.  
  
"Anders, no offense, but a dozen mabaris couldn’t drag me down to Wynne’s room to explain to her that our erstwhile leader of the revolution is going hiking through the Starkhaven countryside alone and in the middle of winter."  
  
"When you put it like that it doesn’t sound very sensible I suppose." It’s not mature to pout but I do it anyway.  
  
"Trust me to know not sensible when I see it," Jowan said darkly. "It is a specialty of mine."  
  
"Fine. I’ll stay." And the clump in my stomach keeps growing heavier. Where are you Hawke? Are you safe?  
  
Please be safe.  
  
…  
  
 _Now._  
  
"What do you mean there is a ship out there? Is it Isabela already?" I take the stairs two steps at a time, and it is only luck that keeps me from tumbling the rest of the way.  
  
"No, it is far too small," Jowan says, though he almost has to shout it since I have outpaced him down the stairs.   
  
"Do we have any smaller skiffs unaccounted for?" I ask, because there shouldn’t be. The weather has been so bad lately that we’ve kept them in harbor.  
  
"No," he gasps, and I halt so he can catch up. "But they seem to know the way in. They might be raiders. Or friends of raiders."  
  
"Let us be prepared for the worst then," I say, gripping my staff a bit harder.   
  
It would almost be a relief to have something to fight, the combat training I was putting the willing mages through wasn’t really enough to make me break a sweat. I hadn’t realized how much fighting had become second hand to me until now. I always used to say I was a healer, not a fighter, but somewhere along the way I had become one without even realizing it. Perhaps Justice’s influence. Trying to teach my fellow mages to remain focused while being pelted with rocks wasn’t really like facing down a shoreline filled with Tal-Vashoth.  
  
Andraste’s shining sword, those were the days.  
  
By the time we reached the harbor, enough people had scrambled from the lookout’s signal that I had no problems arranging a suitable reception should out visitors turn out to be hostile. The ship was close enough now that I could see it riding lightly on the waves, there couldn’t be more than a dozen people onboard at the most. Probably less. But even a dozen experienced raiders could tear a swathe through our untried forces, so I pulled back everybody not essential to the defense, then left Jowan in charge of the rest. No need to risk people needlessly, especially people I could not trust to keep their heads cool.  
  
Was I spoiling for a fight? Maker, yes. Was I just a little bit reckless, standing there alone, staff in hand as the ship made its way inside the cave? Probably. But it made for a striking image, and the people on the boat would be less cautious if they were only greeted by a single man.  
  
"Anders!" That was a cry I had not expected, and neither had I accounted for the fact that one of the passengers on the ship wouldn’t even wait for the gangway to be pushed out before dropping down on the stone and run to meet me.  
  
"Sigrun?" I probably sound as stunned as I am, because I had not expected to see the dwarf ever again. She was one of the ones I’d missed the most when I ran out on the wardens, there was just something so inherently cheerful about the little Legion of the Dead scout. Even if she made me feel like an exhibit at times since she was so curious about my magic.  
  
"I should punch you for running out on us, but it’s been long enough that I stopped being angry, and Nathaniel warned me that these days you are apparently a scary possessed creature prone to strike me down at a moment’s notice, but like I told him, what would be the difference compared to what we normally face? Not that I would ever hug a broodmother. But I am hugging you." And that she did.  
  
To my surprise I dropped down on one knee to do it properly.   
  
"What are you doing here?" I ask, a million reasons running through my head, but in the end there can only be one thing. Warden business. Me. "No, wait, how did you know I was here?" I ask instead, because if the Wardens knew… some of their members were former Templars. That is enough to make my blood run cold.  
  
"King Alistair told us," another voice clarifies, and my blood isn’t just running cold, it is now freezing.   
  
"Nathaniel." I let go of Sigrun and rises to my feet, because as short as she is, as tall is Nathaniel Howe. And a lot less cheerful. Not that he doesn’t have reason to be more than a little cross with me considering…  
  
The punch hits me straight in the face, and to my credit I only stagger backwards because I still have my shields raised from when I prepared for combat.  
  
"He might punch you though," Sigrun supplies helpfully, and then the air erupts in flames.  
  
"You keep your dirty hands off Anders," one of the young mages scream, and chaos ensues as untrained magic clashes against Grey Warden defenses. Sigrun drops in a roll, the flames not fazing her in the slightest, but Nathaniel reaches for his bow…  
  
"No!" I scream, blanketing the cave in frost. Flames sputter, people slow, and even Nathaniel pauses with an arrow halfway nocked. "Stand down. There are no enemies here."  
  
People stagger backwards as the air warms, looking at me in awe and confusion. Andraste’s ample bosoms, I did not need any more hero worship from impressionable young mages. I really didn’t.  
  
"I’m sorry," the mage blushes, and I see that it is Ava. I make a note to have Wynne have a talk with her about thinking before casting. The whole being responsible thing is something she can handle far better than me.   
  
"Oh it’s fine," Sigrun says, brushing herself off. "They were fine flames. Lovely really. Feels a lot nicer than darkspawn magic, I didn’t know they could do it, but they made even fire feel filthy."  
  
"Since when did the dead care about filthy?" I ask her, mostly to avoid looking at Nathaniel.    
  
"Oh just because I am dead doesn’t mean I can’t have standards," she says, then punches me lightly in the leg. "We need to talk. Privately."  
  
"Yes, of course…" I find myself floundering, and settle for giving Jowan a wave. "I’m going to have a chat with my… old friends, you make sure to give the sailors something to warm them up, alright? Not fire, obviously, but I don’t think they would say no to a hot meal, right? Right. This way now…" Maybe if I don’t stop talking, Nathaniel will stop glowering at me.   
  
A vain hope, but right now it is all the hope that I have.  
  
"Lead the way," he says at last, no apologies offered for the punch. We both know I deserve far worse.  
  
…  
  
"It’s a nice little place you’ve got here," Sigrun says once we’ve made ourselves comfortable in my office. "Feels homey. Lots of stone."  
  
"The last owners were a bit hard on it, but nothing a bit of elbow grease won’t fix." I busy myself clearing off papers and maps, I don’t think they are here to spy, but years of paranoia are not something I can just forget.  
  
"And you’ve got yourself a lot of people ready to fight for you," she adds, walking around the room, poking and prodding. Never still. Rarely quiet.   
  
Nathaniel on the other hand just stands there watching me. I don’t watch him.  
  
"I’m sorry about that. We were expecting raiders, not wardens. This is supposed to be a secret base after all." Maybe my voice is hard, but I didn’t expect to be betrayed like this. Maybe we were wrong in trusting the king.   
  
"King Alistair is a nice man, and he trusted that our business were urgent enough that we wouldn’t ask for you lightly." Sigrun pauses, and finally sits down. "It’s been a crazy few years Anders, but none crazier than the last one."  
  
"I… can actually agree on that," I start, busying myself with bringing them some wine and bread, mostly leftovers but I don’t want to go down and stir up the people in the kitchen. Let’s see what they want with me first.  
  
"We need you to come back." Nathaniel speaks again, and I should probably flinch from his tone but I’ve spent years around Fenris and grown immune to people’s dislikes.  
  
"I will not," I reply, pouring him a glass of wine. He does not take it, so I empty it myself instead.  
  
"What tall and grumpy means," Sigrun offers, grabbing her goblet before I can drink that too. "… is that something really bad is happening, and you are the only one that might have any answers to why."  
  
"Thank you for that vote of confidence in my abilities," I say quite coldly, "But the answer is still no."  
  
"It is about Knight Commander Meredith," Nathaniel says, and my hand grabs the goblet just a little bit harder.  
  
"She is dead, I fail to see how that would concern me anymore." I can still feel the heat coming off her semi molten body, unsure whether it’s Lyrium or the flames of her hatred that burned against my skin.  
  
"We stole her sort of corpse from Kirkwall," Sigrun supplies happily, "For research. Because of all that Lyrium that was just plain wrong."  
  
"That’s why you were in the deep roads," I say, looking at Nathaniel. "Searching for the Primeval Thaig. Hawke told me he met Grey Wardens down there, and from his description it sounded like you."  
  
"We were told by our allies that it would be safe by then."   
  
"Oh from what Hawke told me, you didn’t seem exactly… safe. More like on the verge of being slaughtered by darkspawn." Maybe I am rubbing things in, but it is worth it to see a glint of anger behind that cold mask.  
  
"Well," Sigrun interrupts before Nathaniel can explode. "It turns out that crazy old darkspawn didn’t mean that it would be empty of enemies, just that whatever was down there had been taken away already." She smiles a little as she eats; she has managed to work through most of the food by now. "And they didn’t have any dwarves with them, which is just stupid when going underground because you people just don’t have any stone-sense. At all."  
  
"The idol." I run a hand over my face, not liking what I am hearing.  
  
"Yes. We spent too much time tracking it down," Nathaniel continues, "We only realized too late whom the buyer was."  
  
"So did we," I say, and with deep regret. If we had, so much might have been different.  
  
"So we were still around when you started blowing things up," Sigrun says, "Nathaniel here rushed off, and managed to see the whole thing. I wish I had. Crazy wandering statues sounds like an awesome way to go as far as deaths are concerned!"  
  
"You were there?" I ask Nathaniel, but he simply gives me the smallest shrug possible.  
  
"He certainly was," Sigrun says instead of him. "And when you all left and the Templars scattered to pacify the city, we snuck in and stole that glowing corpse-thing that used to be the Knight Commander. Honestly, she must have been worth a fortune!"  
  
"Sigrun," Nathaniel cautions, and I am glad because I am feeling increasingly nauseous, remembering things I would rather have forgotten.   
  
"You wanted the Lyrium." My words are drier than the bread. "Do you have any idea of the risks…?"  
  
"Some," Nathaniel interrupts. "Clearly not enough." He looks disturbed, and I feel a sting of concern.  
  
"What happened?" I ask, being sucked in despite myself. This is Meredith, even dead the woman continues to hound me.  
  
"Nothing at first," Sigrun says. "And then it began to move."  
  
"Move?"   
  
"A hand at first," Nathaniel continues, the horror clearly written on his face if you know how to read him. "Then a leg. Nobody could be sure how, but we locked it in the deepest dungeons of Vigil’s keep just to make sure. Now… it… she… is pacing the room. One step at a time. Very, very slowly."  
  
"Andraste’s scattered ashes," I curse, all color drained from my face. "Has she said anything?"  
  
"No," Sigrun says, "Not a word. And it takes her about half a day to circle the cell, and it’s not a big one. But it has all the mages in a huffle, because they can’t even begin to make sense of what this is, and they all know who this is. And don’t even start on the Templars, those that are still in the order."  
  
"You still have Templars in the order?" I ask, voice hard. I don’t need Justice for anger it seems.  
  
"No," Nathaniel says harshly. "We have Grey Wardens. What we were before is not important; this was the harshest lesson I had to learn."  
  
"It’s not that simple," I say, sighing as I refill my glass. "So why do you want me?"  
  
"You were there when the relic was discovered. You explored that place better than we ever could," Nathaniel says, indifferent to the look of pain on my face. "You conversed with the demons dwelling down there. You are intimately familiar with the machinations of Knight Commander Meredith, and you were instrumental in putting her down in the first place."  
  
"I did not do that on my own," I protest.  
  
"You are not alone now," Sigrun says, smiling at me. "Oh, come on Anders, it will be like old times. Solve a mystery. Defeat an ancient evil. Save the world. Bickering every step of the way."  
  
"I have responsibilities here…" I protest, but in my mind I already hear steps echoing down in the dark. Meredith, Could I ever sleep soundly again?  
  
"We are prepared to take you by force if needed," Nathaniel says evenly, making Sigrun roll her eyes.  
  
"Nathaniel Howe, that is not helping!"  
  
"I’m not the man you knew Nathaniel," my smile is faint and almost threatening. Maker’s breath, when did I turn into someone that could threaten people? "You will not find that as easy as you might imagine. And you two are alone, on an island filled with mages and their kin. I doubt that they would let you take me peacefully."  
  
"He’s got a point," Sigrun said, nabbing the last piece of bread in case things would turn ugly. "That girl down there nearly fried my eyebrows when you punched him."  
  
"If they tried to stop it, they would get hurt. I do not believe that Anders would allow that, no matter how much he has changed."  
  
"You are a hard man, Nathaniel Howe." But inside I am almost grateful that at least he still thinks kindly enough of me not to believe I would sacrifice others just to stay safe myself.   
  
"I have reasons to be," he answers, and the look he gives me makes me cringe back. Just a little bit. Guilt.  
  
What should I do? I wanted nothing more than to flee after Hawke, pretending I didn’t have to worry about making decisions like this ever again. But I couldn’t run because I had responsibilities, and as terrifying as the prospect is, those same responsibilities means that I have to find out what has become of Meredith. She is potentially as great a threat as the Divine herself, and if the Wardens got it into their head to try to use her, or worse… no. I have to go there. I have to make sure she is destroyed, and every last piece of that cursed Lyrium is sunk back into the bowels of the earth.  
  
But my help would not come cheap.  
  
"If I come, it will be at a cost." I try to sound as if I might still refuse them, which is not hard because I still balk of the thought of returning to Vigil’s Keep. "There is a witch hunt out there. Mages are being hunted down and killed, or captured. You Wardens are better placed than most to see this. If I am helping you, you will help me." I take a deep breath, not looking away from Nathaniel. "I want the Wardens who come across mages or their sympathizers on the run to help them. Give the word that if they can run to Ferelden, King Alistair can help them get to safety." The King had dumped this mess in my lap, it was only fair to dump something back for him.   
  
"The Wardens deal with bigger threats than the conflict between Mages and Templars," Nathaniel starts, but I interrupt.  
  
"Yes, you do. And in order to get help for that… bigger threat, you will need to have to suck it up and put your foot down. The Warden Commander made a deal with the Architect for the greater good of humanity, am I really more terrible than a darkspawn?" I should make a joke that at least I have better hats than him, but remembering some of the ones I wore back in Ferelden that would be a dirty lie.   
  
"Jamail Amell is not the Warden Commander anymore," Sigrun says. "He made a run for it a few months after you did. Something about going off to find his witch. He never came back so eventually they got some Orlesian to replace him. Didn’t last long that poor sod."   
  
"So who is in charge then?" I ask.  
  
"Oh, you didn’t know? He is." Sigrun nods at Nathaniel, who has the grace to look thoroughly uncomfortable with the whole situation.  
  
"You… are the Commander of the Grey?"   
  
"Yes," he admits.  
  
"Andraste’s knickerweasels, I never saw that one coming." Though in retrospect perhaps I should have. Whatever his father had done. Nathaniel was still a noble and used to being in command. Not to mention that his appointment might mollify the parts of Ferelden still convinced that Howe and Loghain was right.   
  
"Thank you," Nathaniel says dryly.  
  
"But that means that I can get an answer right away. You help me out. I help you out. We all walk away happily." Or as happily as things ever could get in situations like this.  
  
"You told me that once before," he says, eyes hard.  
  
"I’m a different man now," I say, shrugging innocently.   
  
"We’ll see about that," comes the reply, and I can hear that he doubts me but that he is going to say yes.  
  
He’s going to say yes, and I am going to leave with him and go back to Vigil’s Keep and end this nightmare once and for all.


	11. Chapter 11

  
… the blade descended.  
  
Time slowed.  
A cry rang out.   
A thud when the razor sharp edge of the axe buried itself in the block.  
  
Wait…  
  
Hawke opened his eyes. He had not screamed. He had not screamed because he had not felt any pain, but somebody was screaming alright.  
  
Above him, his torturer and would be maimer waved his arm around, a shaft stuck through his wrist. Hawke almost smiled a little, he wasn’t above enjoying himself when other screamed and others bled. And the man was bleeding. Profusely. The artery, he noted to himself. An expert shot.  
  
He should have cheered, but it felt too hard when just clinging to his consciousness was a chore, and then a furred shadow leapt onto the platform, bringing the torturer down.  
  
"Wolf!" A cry rung out from the crowd, panic spreading because there were screams now, howls of pain and fangs tearing flesh and ouch, that did not look nice at all. The ‘wolf’ had just torn open the man’s gut, tearing at his intestines. It wasn’t a wolf at all really, Hawke noticed through a distant veil of pain and shock. It was a mabari sans kaddis. People could be so stupid sometimes. And the guards looked too afraid to charge the beast.  
  
Just like they should be.   
  
There was smoke now, filling the air, and fire and screams and more panic. People were so noisy, he just wanted to sink to the floor in a dead faint, but his trapped hand made that less than comfortable. Perhaps he should escape. That would serve them right. The axe was still embedded in the block an inch from his hand, it wasn’t that hard to budge it enough to sever the leather thongs that held his hand immobile.   
  
There. That’s better.  
  
People were rushing the platform now, but the mabari was there, all teeth and claws and the smoke was growing heavier and Hawke decided it was easier to just roll off the platform. He was still chained, so once he had fallen to the cold and muddy ground his escape turned into a crawl. The crowd was hundreds of feet milling about, sometimes tripping over him, sometimes stepping on him, but there was no smoke down here and if he remembered the scent right, that was a lucky break. Just the right mix of hallucinogenics to heighten paranoia and fear, turning the crowd ugly.  
  
They were still screaming about fire, Blood Magic, and even the odd cry that this was the Maker’s judgment descending on them just like in Kirkwall. Idiots. The Maker’s judgment was nothing more than a mage pushed too far. Maker’s breath he hoped that Anders was here, because it hurt to crawl, it hurt to stay conscious, it hurt to think. The smoke thinned for a moment, and a guard brought down a spear on him, only to stumble forward and fall to the ground next to Hawke. Bleeding from the back of his cracked head. Eyes glazed over.   
  
The large boots in front of the rogue paused for a moment, the heel of the carved staff resting on the cobblestones. Then the boots turned and left. Hawke was peering after the massive form, wondering what the blight had happened when rough dwarven hands grabbed him. His protest was a pained groan; he was far too tired to put up much of a fight. But he did manage to get a two-legged kick in before they rolled him in a blanket and dumped him on a cart, covered with furs.  
  
The cart smelled of candied winter apples and meat pies. A street-vendor’s push-cart, now propelled through the narrow streets at breakneck speed together with the rest of the fleeing crowd. He should probably faint here, Hawke thought to himself. But it was too uncomfortable with the way he was jostled this way and that at every turn. His back felt like someone had lit it on fire, but he smelled nothing burning. Had that been his dog back there or had he been dreaming? Was he dreaming now?  
  
"He’s in there," An out-of-breath voice said as the cart screeched to a halt. A dwarf. Harl?  
  
"Any problems?" Another voice, equally familiar, but names escaped Hawke like water through his fingers. Especially the implausible ones.  
  
"Blighted slippery nug almost slipped away in the crowd. Otherwise, great distraction Erick," Duster said, patting the side of the cart.  
  
"He’s good at that," the man called Erick said with a familiar laugh. "I’m glad to hear not all things change."  
  
"Anyway," Duster continued. "Where’s our money?"  
  
"One more piece of evidence that indeed the world do not change," Erick lamented. "Don’t you trust me?"  
  
"Only thing I trust is gold," Duster said with a world-weary tone to his voice.  
  
"A wise man," Erick said, and Hawke could hear a jingle of metal softer than his chains. "Perhaps these will sooth your worries?"  
  
"That will do just fine," Duster said. "Pleasure doing business with you."  
  
"And not a word of this to Captain Geir?" Harl still sounded nervous.  
  
"My lips are sealed," Erick said solemnly.  
  
"As if ever," Duster scoffed. "Come on Harl, let’s get some distance between us and this blighted madman."  
  
  
The cart started moving again, slower this time. Hawke found himself drifting. He smelled blood and pies, and the odd juxtaposition of flavors made this feel like a dream. There were no screams outside now, no cries, nobody to speak and anchor him to wakefulness. Consciousness was hard to hang on to, and it was not until fresh air hit him in the face as the furs were pulled away that they realized they had stopped.  
  
"Out Hawke." Erick’s voice, and the name wasn’t quite right. Just almost. "I need you to help a little here, you humans are too blighted tall. What do you need those gangly legs for anyway?"  
  
"Varric," Hawke mumbled, finally putting a name to the voice. "I swear to you, if you turn out to be another hallucination I am punching you in your beardless face."   
  
He tried his best to move, rolling over the edge of the cart, only to land on the cold and frozen ground. He was still wrapped in the blanket and had no way to protect himself when he fell, but luckily Varric had his arms around him, easing the descent somewhat. He still gasped in pain. Just a little. Loudly. The movement had brought life into his back again.  
  
"There," Varric said, voice all soft and worried. "Just roll over on your stomach Hawke, we need to get this blanket off you before it sticks even worse."  
  
"You… grew a beard," Hawke muttered, trying to do what Varric asked him to. That was usually the best thing for everybody concerned. Even if Varric had a beard now. And a glorious beard it was, braided and brushed and luxuriously thick and blond.   
  
"So did you," Varric remarked, gently peeling the blanket away from Hawke’s flesh, inch by torturous inch. "And a rather scruffy one at that."  
  
"At least I didn’t grow boobs…" Hawke mumbled to nobody in particular. "That would have looked… odd." A thought suddenly struck him, because he had to think of something that wasn’t the fact that it felt like Varric was flaying him alive. "Did you shave your chest hair and glue it to your face?"  
  
"I most certainly did not," the dwarf said with mock annoyance. "I simply buttoned up because this blighted country is far too cold and I don’t need my nipples chafed."  
  
"Because that… would be painful." Hawke sucked in a breath, gritting his teeth as Varric worked the last of the fabric loose. At least it hadn’t had time to dry completely.   
  
"Maker’s breath Hawke, how do you get yourself into these situations?" Varric asked, sighing as he bundled up the bloodstained blanket.  
  
"If… I knew that," the rogue said between hisses of pain, "… then I’d stop."  
  
"Somehow I doubt that," Varric said with a sigh, walking over to the cart.  
  
Once the dwarf retreated, he was replaced by a wet nose, warm breath and a very wet mabari tongue licking Hawke’s face.  
  
"Go away boy, I want to faint in peace," the rogue mumbled, because even if he wanted to make a move to pet his dog, his arms and legs were still securely chained. Maybe later. If this didn’t turn out to be a dream. He didn’t want it to be one. He wanted his dog alive, he’d missed him more than most his friends once he ordered him to leave with Bethany. Keeping her safe. Good job they both had done of that.  
  
"No fainting yet, Hawke, drink this." Varric uncorked a small bottle, putting it against the rogue’s lips.  
  
Hawke drank, then coughed. The taste was bitter enough to make his eyes tear up, or maybe that was just relief. This had to be real, no hallucination could taste this bad. Which meant that Varric was here and his dog was alive and he still had both his hands.  
  
"I hate your potions, Varric," he mumbled. "Anders always puts some honey in his. Do you have any idea how absolutely awful elfroot tastes?"  
  
"Probably about as awful as your back looks. Drink up. All of it."  
  
"Bossy dwarf. And it’s nothing. Just a flesh wound."  
  
"Care to prove that? We need to get you over on the stretcher before you catch a chill. We can’t linger here; it’s too close to the city."  
  
"Just don’t laugh when I crawl. I don’t think I could handle that right now."  
  
"When have I ever laughed at you Hawke?" The dwarf’s innocence was laughable.  
  
"I… have a list," the rogue started. Varric had moved the stretcher close, but he still had to actually drag himself on it. And that meant getting up on all fours. "There was that time at the Hanged Man… when I… lost to Aveline at arm wrestling."  
  
"It was not that you lost Hawke, it was the mad notion that you had a chance in the first place."  
  
"That’s still…" he had to pause, because the pain was enough to make his eyes tear up and Varric made a move to help him, but pulled back as Hawke continued talking. "… man has dignity." On all fours now, just a short, short crawl, then blessed oblivion."  
  
"If you had dignity, you would not have bet that you’d prance around the tavern in her underwear if you lost."  
  
"I… thought she’d never… oh blast it… take them off," Hawke said, voice tight with pain, his hands finding soft furs as he gently lowered himself down on the improvised stretcher. "How… was I supposed to know that Isabela had a pair of hers? With her?" That was better. The furs tickled his face, warm and safe like a comfortable hound in front of the fire.  
  
"You should always be prepared that Isabela will have everything she needs on hand to make fools of all the parties present."  
  
"So I’ve learned," Hawke said, smiling despite the pain. Part of him wanted to faint, but he was afraid that he would wake up with Varric gone. So he asked "What was she doing with Aveline’s panties anyway?"  
  
"She had planned to hoist them as a flag, commandeering the bar of the Hanged Man as her pirate ship. This was more fun."  
  
"I’m glad to hear that."  
  
"Good, because you are not going to like this." Varric knelt next to the stretcher, pulling out a bottle. "I am going to disinfect your back."  
  
"Grand," Hawke muttered. "Don’t you have any mages around?" He knew that it needed to be done, but Maker’s breath, head grown spoiled travelling with first his sister, and then Anders. Even if wounds that were too severe to heal right away could be treated, skin scabbed and pain relieved. Not for the first time he wished that Anders had come along. But then again, then it might have been Anders Sebastian took his grudge out on, and then he very much doubted there would have been a hand on the block. A head more like it.  
  
"No mages I’m afraid," Varric sounded rather sad at that, uncorking the bottle. "Just me, a cranky old mabari and a pup too crazy to bring along this far."  
  
"How…" Hawke started, anxious to put this off for as long as possible.  
  
"No hows now Hawke. There will be time for explanations later. Right now we need to do this and then get as far away as we can. I would bite down on something if I were you."  
  
"A true gentleman would offer me his hand," Hawke complained, but obeyed and folded a corner of the furs to bite down on.  
  
A moment later his back turned to ice, then fire, and then consciousness mercifully fled the battlefield his body had become.  
  
…  
  
When he awoke, he was carried on a stretcher, surrounded by trees on the narrow forest path. Snow drifted down haphazardly, covering the ground like stubble creeping in on a teenager’s chin. The front end of the stretcher was lashed to the mabari’s broad back, while the tail end was carried by Varric. Next to the stretcher a young mabari trotted, a spring in his step though his back was laden with heavy packs.  
  
Hawke could feel his back hurt, but it was a distant ache as long as he didn’t move. The chains still bruised his arms and legs, but he was covered with a thick fur that kept out the worst chill. The hide didn’t get stuck to his back the same way the blanket had, but it was still in no way pleasant. The cold, he suspected, would be worse.  
  
"You taught my dog how to carry a stretcher," Hawke started, surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice. Had he screamed that much?  
  
"I taught him how to play diamondback, didn’t I? This was easy. The young one there, he’s the real handful. Luckily he worships Woofles here." Varric sounded tired but amused, and Hawke wondered how much time had passed.  
  
"Are you going to tell me what happened now? Or are you saving it for your next book?"  
  
"Alas, I haven’t had time to write in a long time now. Sometimes I think of my poor readers, forever waiting for the last installment of Hard in Hightown." The sigh was theatrical and brought a puff of white mist to the chill air.  
  
"I could use the distraction," Hawke pointed out. "Or else I could start whining. Incessantly. I am feeling particularly cranky right now."  
  
"Fine," Varric said, rolling his eyes. "If you are lucid enough to joke I suppose we might as well talk. You first."  
  
"Not much to tell," Hawke begun, focusing on the comforting sound of paws padding over frozen ground. "We got Sebastian’s little taunt that he had captured Bethany and Merrill. I convinced Anders to stay behind, and set out with that Crow assassin, if you remember him?"  
  
"Maker’s breath I remember him. I did not care for the way he looked at my chest."  
  
"We went in as mercenaries, got the lay of the land, made a plan and broke in. Worked like a charm, both Bethany and Merrill were drugged but otherwise fine. And then, on the way out, things turned sour. Chanced upon guards that should have been asleep, the alarm was raised, I got separated from the rest and they made a run for it while I tried to get out another way."  
  
"And distract as many as you could on the way I suppose."  
  
"She’s my sister," Hawke said simply. "I might have some blame in what Anders did, she has none."  
  
"And so they got away, leaving you in Sebastian’s hands. I can’t imagine he was very displeased with that trade if he wanted Anders."   
  
"Anders is not here. Sebastian refused to believe it, hence the little scene you broke up. Intended to draw out my friends to try to rescue me. Sadly enough for him he set the trap for mages, not dwarves with crossbows and poison gas."  A small bark from the front of the stretcher. "Or veteran mabari wardogs," Hawke quickly added. "Good boy. I have no idea how he ended up here though, I sent him off with Bethany. She thought he might be dead."  
  
"I don’t know either," Varric admitted. "We met up in Starkhaven, he must have followed her when she got captured."  
  
"Across the sea? Aren’t you a brilliant dog," Hawke mumbled, getting a happy bark in return. This set off the small mabari, who did a mad little runaround before slowing down. Luckily the packs had been securely fastened to his back. "And yes, you are a brilliant puppy too… Feathers, isn’t it?" The barking in return said Yes!Yes!Yes!  
  
"You know the crazy little monster?" Varric asked incredulously.   
  
"I think so. He’s named Feathers. He’s apparently bonded to Merrill."  
  
"Why does that make too much sense?" The dwarf groaned and shifted his grip on the stretcher.  
  
"Your turn now," Hawke said, closing his eyes. He felt safe enough to do that now.  
  
"I heard about Sunshine and Daisy much like you did," the dwarf started. "While I never cared too much about chantry boy, the way he used my nicknames to draw you in was a slap in the face. My words! I don’t let people steal from me, be they princes or paupers. So I went to Starkhaven."  
  
"And grew a beard," Hawke filled in.  
  
"Oh I already had a beard. There was a… spot of trouble with some Chantry Seekers, and I realized I had better be a little more nondescript until things calmed down. So exit handsome storyteller Varric Tethras, and enter Erick, casteless bearded surface trader and occasional mercenary. Starkhaven has been hiring mercenaries like mad, especially of the dwarven and Tal Vashoth variety, so I had no problems getting in. I was just on the verge of executing my rather brilliant plan, when you barged in and upset everything."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"It’s fine Hawke, I’m used to it by now," Varric said magnanimously. "I was about to pack up my things and leave, because rumor had it that you all had escaped, and then someone owing me a whole lot of money tried to fence your stuff. Imagine my surprise, there’s no mistaking those daggers, and I know you wouldn’t part from them willingly. It wasn’t hard to get some more information from him, and luckily Sebastian gave me enough time to come up with a daring plan of rescue."   
  
"Like assaulting the city square," Hawke said dryly. Varric had his daggers. He’d lie if that didn’t make a stone drop from his chest.  
  
"Oh it wasn’t that much of an assault," Varric said humbly. "Just a bit of smoke and firebombs, and a few mercenary dwarves not above making a bit of coin on the side."  
  
"Not that I’m not grateful for the rescue, but did you have to wait until the last minute?"  
  
"There were more guards with you in the wagon, and then you were chained to the pole," Varric said apologetically. "And then… do you have any idea how hard it is to get a shot off in the middle of a crowd where people tower head and shoulders above you?" The dwarf’s annoyance came half from being questioned, half from knowing how close he came to failing.  
  
"It was a very good shot," Hawke admitted.  
  
"Thank you," Varric said, mollified. "They loaded you in the vendor’s cart, then ran for the west gate while me and the dog kept the crowd panicked and the guards busy. The guard posted at that gate is not above being bribed to be elsewhere for a while, that’s how most of the goods are smuggled into Starkhaven. Used him before when I was bringing in some trinkets to sell off, I don’t think he’ll talk and risk his business. After that, things were simple. I left the street-vendor’s cart down the road, where it has now probably been stolen and leading people off track if they ever put together what really happened. Now we are cutting cross-country, just two dogs and a single man, and the hound have not been bred that wants to track a mabari. By nightfall we’ll hit the western road, and if my contacts have earned their money, there should be a cart there waiting for us."  
  
"West…" Hawke muttered to himself. "That’s towards Kirkwall."  
  
"The direction nobody would look in," Varric assured.  
  
But Hawke didn’t answer; he had slid off into painful dreams once more.  
  
…  
  
The next time Hawke awoke, he was face down on a cart, his stomach empty enough for its growling to penetrate the haze of dull pain that had been his state for the last days. There was a canvas roof over his head, and though he had to share the space with boxes and crates, the bedding was surprisingly comfortable. His back ached, but felt dull and numb, and he knew that he was scabbing over. Moving too fast would probably tear everything open again, but he raised his head a little, calling out.  
  
"Varric?"  
  
"Erick," came the reply. "I’m Erick now, and you’re… Ian."  
  
"That’s my real name," Hawke pointed out.  
  
"Your name that almost nobody outside your family ever uses. And it’s common enough to work. Simple lies are the best."  
  
"Like Erick is almost Varric."  
  
"Exactly, my good man. Now, how are you feeling?"  
  
"Hungry. Sore. Wanting the chains off." In need of a bath. Needing Anders. Wanting to know if his sister was safe. Hawke realized that if he stated listing things, he’d never stop so he turned quiet.  
  
"We’ll stop to eat soon; you’ve had nothing but elfroot for days. How’s your back?"  
  
"Hurting like a dragon threw up on it. But it’s still better than being skewered by the Arishok."   
  
"Good. It didn’t look like you had any fever last time I checked in on you. We’ll deal with the chains as soon as we find a smithy that looks safe to bribe. I’ll have to hand it to the chantry boy; he was clever not to have any locks on them. Almost makes me believe all the stories about his sordid past."  
  
"If they had locks, I wouldn’t have stuck around to be entertained at the pole. Maybe that’s what passes for fun in Starkhaven, but this is one time I didn’t want to be the center of attention. First time being lashed, and I can’t say I approve of it."  
  
"Few people do Ian, few people do."   
  
Silence fell between them for a while, and then Hawke finally said the words he had wanted to say for months now.  
  
"I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have dragged you all into this." Varric. Aveline. Isabela he didn’t feel badly about, she owed him. Merrill and Bethany were involved despite what they might want just by being mages, and Fenris had opposed him. But both Varric and Aveline had come along grudgingly, out of friendship and little else. Hawke supposed he had a lot better friends than he deserved really.  
  
"The thing is," Varric started, voice so low it was hard to pick out through the creaking of the wheels. "I might have been a bit unfair to you. Not much, mind you, it still was a blasted insane thing to do. But… you’ve been there for me, Ian. You didn’t hold it against me when my own blasted brother betrayed us all, and you helped me care for him and even talk me into keeping the blighter alive. Something I never thought I would be grateful for, but you are right. Family is family. And then you helped me with that remnant of the idol that was turning my brother’s house into Thedas favorite vacation spot for spirits. And you kept me from keeping it and risk ending up like Bartrand. That’s evening the score between us quite a bit."  
  
"Not to mention the small fact that I’ve netted you a fortune in story fodder over the years," Hawke muttered through the smile that was spreading unseen over his face. "Don’t think that I don’t read your books, and never think I’m not grateful that I come out the way I do. Anders is… less than happy."  
  
"Oh every hero needs a love interest that swoons over him and ends up in peril," Varric said. "Perhaps the dialog has been a little on the… let us say cheesier side, but have you heard some of the things that Blondie spits out when drunk? He should be glad I write adventure romances, not comedy."  
  
The silence fell again, and this time Varric was the one to break it.  
  
"How… is he?"  
  
"I’m not you Va… Erick. I can’t sum things up that neatly. And I’m not eve sure I know." Hawke only knew that he missed him and never planned to leave him behind again if he could help it. "We dealt with his… little spirit problem. He’s sane now. Funnier. You’d like him I think."  
  
"Still starting a revolution?"  
  
"Leading it more like it. Losing his passenger didn’t change his views, just mellowed him a bit. A little bit."  
  
"Revolutions are bad for business. Unless you’re in the business of looting and war profiteering, there are no winners in a war, and I still have some standards."  
  
"There’s more to life than business, Erick."  
  
"Easy for you to say, you have the business sense of a drunk nug, I remember then…"  
  
"I love him," Hawke interrupted. "And I think he’s right. I’m in this, all the way."  
  
"You do know that way will probably end up six feet underground with a templar pissing on your tombstone, right?"  
  
"You’re such an optimist to think I’ll even get a tombstone," Hawke said, smirking in the back of the wagon. "I was planning more on being cut down in the wilderness, then eaten by wolves."  
  
The loud howl that echoed from the surrounding forest made them both fall silent, the mabaris growling in alarm. Wolves. And dusk was coming.  
  
"Now why did you have to go and say that?" Varric complained, the cart quickening its pace.  
  
"Because some things apparently never changes," Hawke said, wishing how that wasn’t true. Flogged back. Chained hands and feet. Unarmed and trapped in the back of a cart.  
  
What more could possibly go wrong?


	12. Chapter 12

Varric and Hawke had come across the abandoned farmstead as they left the main road to veer south. The house was nothing but charred timbers and barely standing walls, but the small smithy was still standing though the roof leaned precariously. It looked just like Fenris after one too many bottles, Hawke thought to himself. Dark, brooding, and just unsteady enough to kill you if you laughed at it. 

  
"Perfect," Varric exclaimed as he came stomping back, breath a white cloud and the thick, blonde beard covered in frost. "Just what I hoped, nobody in their right mind would loot a smith’s hammer, too heavy and cumbersome for the money it would get if you hawked it.  
  
"I did, once," Hawke said, grimacing a little as he crawled to the edge of the cart. He didn’t want to move, because that hurt, and he didn’t want to be out of the blankets because the cold kept getting worse. However, it would all be worth it to be out of the chains.  
  
"You gave it to Fenris and tried to convince him that it was a weapon of wondrous dwarven artifice, that’s hardly looting. More like suicide." Varric helped Hawke out of the cart, as gently as he was able. If he showed any relief when the rogue’s legs didn’t give out on him and he remained standing, he didn’t show it.  
  
"You went along with it," Hawke protested, leaning heavily on the stocky dwarf. He couldn’t walk fast, but he could shuffle. It wouldn’t be the most graceful trek up to the anvil, but Varric had already seen him at his worst.  
  
"I went along with it because I did not want your face broken when he found out you lied to him."  
  
"Your concern touches me, and he wouldn’t have found out. I’m good at lying," Hawke assured.  
  
"Or so you keep telling yourself. Maker’s breath, Ian, if you knew how many times I have pulled your fat out of the fire without you even knowing it…"  
  
"I do keep getting into worse messes without you," Hawke said thoughtfully, giving the leaning roof a suspicious look. "See now, if you had been here, I would probably never have ended up…"  
  
"Hawke, don’t," Varric warned, sounding tired. The subject of his departure was a sore spot they had skirted around so many times by now.  
  
"Ian. Don’t break our cover Erick."  
  
"Fine. Ian. I thought you didn’t like your name?"  
  
"It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just that Hawke is a lot more awe-inspiring. Whoever would be afraid of a refugee thief called Ian? Hawke the Champion however… he’s a force to be reckoned with. Ian is… well, that’s what my family calls me."  
  
The moment of silence between them stretched awkwardly as the dwarf caught on to the implications.   
  
"Well, anyway, Ian," Varric finally said, voice a bit tighter than it had been earlier. "We’ll see what happens. It’s not like I’m going to leave you to fend for yourself like this."  
  
"I’m very grateful," Hawke said, sinking down on his knees next to the anvil. "So how do we do this?"  
  
"The chain is long enough that you can hold the chisel for me. That way I can use both hands, which is good, because Maker’s breath this hammer is heavy." Varric picked up the rather impressive hammer with both hands.  
  
"If you say so," Hawke said a bit suspiciously. But he was hurting too much to argue. Kneeling in front of the anvil gave him bad associations to placing his hand on the block, but at least here it was a hammer, not an axe. Though the hammer could crush his hand just as thoroughly if Varric missed…  
  
"Hold still," the dwarf complained.  
  
"I’m trying to. It’s not as easy as it looks with you wielding that blighted hammer."  
  
"What is this sudden lack of confidence in my abilities? I am wounded." Varric rested the hammer on the floor while Hawke collected himself.  
  
"And I’m gonna be more than wounded if you miss. You’re a crack shot with a crossbow, but I’ve yet to see you wield anything heavier than Bianca."  
  
"Don’t insult her, Ian, she’s the reason you’re not wolf food," Varric warned, lowering his voice into a soft whisper at the crossbow resting next to him. "Don’t listen to him baby, I love you just the way you are."  
  
"Just break the chain in the middle, alright? That’s just one blow instead of two. I can live with half a chain and manacles until we find a proper smith."  
  
"A proper smith? Ian, my boy, I am a dwarf. I’ll have you know we are excellent smiths." Varric stroked his beard with a flair that surprised Hawke since the dwarf had only recently obtained it.  
  
"I would be more convinced if you hadn’t spent so many nights at the Hanged Man decrying the ways of your ancestors," the rogue muttered, but replaced the chisel, trying to keep his hand out of the way as much as possible.  
  
"Fine, just stretch the chain then."   
  
The dwarf huffed and raised the hammer, and before Hawke could hesitate again he brought it down in a hard, forceful blow. The chain dented, but did not break, and so he repeated the process, again and again until finally the link had bent enough to be pried apart. Hawke nearly laughed in relied, spreading his arms wide for the first time in weeks.  
  
"Freedom!" he exclaimed bombastically; only to follow up with a long string of profanity that made even Varric raise an eyebrow.  
  
"Freedom?" Varric asked, in the same questioning tone that Sandal had used to say ‘enchantment’ every time he wanted something.  
  
"Freedom hurts," Hawke said with a wince. "My back did not like my dramatics."  
  
"I am glad that at lest your back has a lick of sense in it," the dwarf said and petted the anvil. "Now the legs. If you think you can manage it."  
  
"Of course I can manage it," Hawke scoffed. "Whether I’ll whimper like Gamlen after a dice game is a different question."  
  
He tried to be brave, really he did. But this required him to go through a series of acrobatics that had his back on fire before he finally got the chain over the anvil. It was a precarious thing, sitting there on the bench Varric had dragged closer, leaning forward to hold the chisel. It hurt. He could literally feel his flesh being pulled apart where the skin stretched the scabs. He was bleeding again, he just knew it. And that would mean more cleaning, more admonishing by Varric, and probably a few more of those blighted elfroot potions. But, at least he didn’t care about the hammer anymore, he just wanted this over with, one way or the other.  
  
And then it was done.  
  
"Don’t faint on me, Ian, I warn you…"   
  
Varric was warm and heavy and kept him upright when his legs threatened to give out. But eventually the ground stopped spinning and Hawke found himself still standing. Somehow.   
  
"I’m alright," he assured, but didn’t think Varric believed him. He didn’t quite believe himself after all.  
  
"Like I said, a bad liar," the dwarf said, helping him back to the cart. "Let me scrounge for some rags so we can wrap up the stumps of chain and make things a bit easier for you. The dogs are still off hunting dinner."   
  
Hawke refrained from pointing out that really, the things that would make it easier for him right now was a bottle of whiskey and a soft bed, but he supposed not even the dwarf could scrounge that up out here. At least they didn’t lack for food; Woofles might be getting on in years, but Feathers was young and learning fast. Old. His dog was getting old. What did that make him? Not for the first time, Hawke pondered what would happen in a handful of years. Mages really only got stronger as they aged, but warriors? Not so much. And rogues like him were worst off of them all. You lost agility and reflexes a lot sooner than strength and stamina, and he could already feel his bones ache a bit when the weather was wrong. Anders had told him he was imagining things, but…  
  
Then a single, sharp bark came from the forest and tore him out of his miserable thoughts, it was Woofles, and that meant trouble.  
  
"Varric?" he shouted, reaching into the wagon for his daggers. Suddenly pain was something he just had to bear, because if his dog was worried it was never without good cause.   
  
"I heard," the dwarf shouted back. "Get the horse in here, behind the walls."  
  
Hawke swore to himself, the horse had been unbuckled from the cart when they made halt here, but it was still all he could do to untie the reins, and bring the nervous beast over to where Varric covered the edge of the forest with Bianca. Hawke tied the reins to a fallen timber, then very gingerly leaned against a wall.  
  
"Just tell me what you see, I’m going to stand here in agony until there’s something that really needs killing."  
  
"Glad to hear you think you are up for that at least," the dwarf said quietly, tensing slightly as both dogs ran towards the ruins without prey, but with blooded fangs.  
  
"Good to see you, boy," Hawke said, eyeing the graying fur for wounds, finding none. "What’s up?"  
  
The mabari launched into the quiet series of barks and growls that amounted to speech, leading Hawke to sigh heavily.  
  
"Did I hear that correctly?" Varric said, though he didn’t seem to doubt his own judgment.  
  
"Darkspawn," Hawke affirmed. "I guess now we know what burnt the farm down. Guess militias and Templars have other things to do these days than keeping people safe."   
  
Feathers barked loudly, the single staccato bark ‘Darkspawn!Darkspawn!Darkspawn!’ ringing out loud enough to make both men jump.  
  
"Shush now, puppy," Varric cautioned. "That’s loud enough for them to hear us."  
  
"It’s loud because they are here," Hawke said, catching the first movement from the forest. "Here we go again. Feathers, Woofles, you guard Varric you hear? Keep him safe. Guard his back. There’s enough holes in the walls here for a horde to clamber through if they want to."  
  
The bark he got in return was partly reproachful, but the dogs realized Varric’s importance as much as Hawke. Bianca was the only real chance they had.  
  
"What are you going to do?" the dwarf asked, sending the first bolt flying towards the shuffling shapes. As predicted, the Genlock cried out in pain and did not get up again.  
  
"Probably something very stupid, but what else is new?"   
  
Hawke flashed Varric a grin, then clambered out through one of the burnt out windows, out of sight of the horde. Oh this was stupid, but it was also their best chance. According to Woofles there had been at least five paws of darkspawn, but at least the dog had not smelled an ogre, so they had a shot at doing this. Varric and the dogs could hold their ground against warriors and archers with little trouble, but magic on the other hand… a Hurlock Emissary could burn them out with little effort if he kept himself hidden from Varric’s sharp eyes.  
  
That was his job. Even if he hurt like hell and hadn’t moved properly in weeks. Funny how that worked, once the adrenaline kicked in suddenly his back was just a discomfort, like bare feet and heavy manacles. Fighting for your life did that, adrenaline had saved him more times than he could count. He hoped it would again, because Woofles was right, there were a lot of them, but by now Varric’s bolts and the barking dogs had the darkspawn completely focused on the ruins. He could skirt the battle, and… yes, there was an Emissary alright. He had spotted the golden glow as the creature wrapped energy for a spell of support. Not close enough for fire yet, which was very, very lucky for them.  
  
Hawke’s luck ran out a moment later when the chains clanked at just the wrong moment, the sound carrying across the battlefield. Oh crap. Four darkspawn veered his way, swords and fangs bared. Normally he wouldn’t have worried, but this weren’t normal. He was not normal. And every time he had to fight darkspawn, Anders’ horror stories of what could happen if you were hurt kept running through his head. He had seen the taint himself, had seen Aveline’s first husband eaten by it, and Maker’s breath he didn’t want to share that fate. It had been bad enough down in the Deep Roads were Anders had kept an eye on them, but here? Not something he wanted to consider. Not something he had time to consider.  
  
In fact, he hardly had time to dodge and roll, and Maker’s blighted crap that hurt. The wounds from Sebastian’s arrows weren’t completely healed yet, and kept slowing him down. But he hadn’t been brained, which was the important bit. He kept low and lashed out, kneecapping one warrior before he had to straighten up to relieve the tension in his legs. Blast it, he couldn’t move fast enough, he had to parry a blow he should have dodged, and the power behind it numbed his arm. Feint and sidestep, and a quick thrust and the warrior fell with a dagger to his neck, but his fellow drew blood, nearly eviscerating Hawke though he jumped back at the last minute.  
  
That hurt. Not a deep wound, but close to where the Arishok had skewered him. Poisoned? Nothing he could worry about now. He kneed a Genlock in the groin, stabbing its neck when it bent over, then used it as a shield when the arrows flew. Just a single volley, because for the archers, Varric was still the bigger concern. Hawke didn’t blame them, he pushed away the corpse, then stumbled backwards as he got a shield thrust in his face. He saw stars, and it was only reflex and experience that made him push backwards to avoid the blow he knew would come. His reckless act sent him stumbling into a very surprised darkspawn, but he recovered first and buried both daggers in the creature’s throat before pulling away. He couldn’t keep this up. He felt his left leg buckle, and then someone stepped at the end of the chains connecting to his manacles, sending him tumbling to the ground.  
  
Shit. He rolled to the side at the last moment, the axe burying itself in the ground, inches from his head. Fire flared against the skies, he had been too late to stop the Emissary and now they were in deep, deep trouble. The axe struck again, and this time he gave the creature a kick in the face as it tried to retrieve it, if only he could get up…  
  
… and then the darkspawn surrounding him staggered back, stumbling and slipping on the uneven ground. Hawke blinked, not sure exactly what was happening. Neither was the darkspawn, he could hear them screech in confusion, but the force that forced them was merciless. It dragged them back, pinned them to the ground, and then some invisible fist from above mashed them to the hard, frozen ground. Bodies twisted and broke, some still alive but dying as cracked ribs and inner bleeding tore away their lives. It was… gruesome.  
  
Gruesome and very, very helpful. Hawke was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, he was already on his feet and off towards the Emissary before he realized that the battle was almost over already. The field was littered with black-blooded corpses, most of them mashed in exceedingly gruesome ways, others seemingly fallen without injury. The Emissary had died in his own fire, Hawke could smell the stench of burnt flesh from here, and they were… safe. Really safe. Then he could finally collapse. His vision blackened and he felt his legs give out.  
  
But he never hit the ground.  
  
Instead he was caught, albeit with difficulty.  
  
"Ah, Champion, we must stop meeting like this," Zevran said with a wide smile though he buckled slightly under the ungainly weight of the tall rogue.  
  
"When have we ever met like this?" Hawke asked, not too proud to wrap an arm around the assassin’s slender shoulders. Fainting was not an option when pride was concerned.  
  
"In my dreams, many a time," the elf replied with a wickedly raised eyebrow. "Though there were less blood there, and slightly more chains."  
  
"You’re supposed to be halfway to Ferelden with my sister," Hawke complained between clenched teeth.  
  
"Ah, yes, but your sister is a very scary woman. I am not brave enough to argue with her when she wants to go elsewhere." The elf let go once Hawke could stand on his own two feet. "Which was lucky for you, yes?"  
  
"Bethany? Scary?" Hawke tried to connect those two terms with each other, surveying the battlefield. Was this Bethany’s doing? He’d never seen carnage like this that wasn’t in some way related to Blood Mages, but there hadn’t been any telltale auras. You didn’t miss people being torn apart from the inside out; this was more the other way around. Not for the first time he wondered what his sister had really learned in the circle, it seemed she hadn’t spent all her time teaching children.  
  
"Speaking of…" Zevran said, pointing towards the ruins where Bethany climbed out, followed by two happy dogs and a relieved Varric.  
  
"I keep telling you, Sunshine, you just had to give it another minute and Bianca would have shown them.  
  
"Of course Varric," she smiled, all sweetness and light around the dwarf. Too bad the clouds came when she stopped to stare down her brother. "You were supposed to escape."  
  
"I’m sorry," Hawke said, trying not to look so miserable. It didn’t work, because she was on him in seconds, touching his stomach and frowning. "Sebastian is quite a good shot, the bastard."  
  
"Well, the Maker has a sense of humor it seems. Now I have to rescue the rescuer." She sighed and tossed back her dark hair. "Varric, Zevran, get my idiot brother in the cart so I can heal him before he falls apart completely."  
  
"As you wish, beautiful." Zevran bowed and grabbed one arm, while Varric just rolled his eyes at the elf and grabbed the other.  
  
Hawke really had no choice as he found himself manhandled into the cart.  
  
…  
  
Some time later, the wagon rolled again, Varric and Zevran sharing stories at the reins, the two dogs scouting the surrounding forest. Hawke lay face down and stripped in the back of the wagon, Bethany running gentle fingers over his back now that she was done with his stomach wound.  
  
"I hope you’ve learned your lesson," she said, cupping her hands around the healing glow before letting it drip down on her brother’s lacerated back like spring water.  
  
"What lesson? Not to rescue my sister?"  
  
"Don’t be a smart-mouth now, Ian."  She kept moving her hands, following each welted line, teasing it from open and raw to reddish and nearly healed. "Sometimes things come up even you can’t handle. You shouldn’t have made Zevran swear to bring us to safety, that would have saved you a lot of pain."  
  
"He wouldn’t have killed me. He wanted Anders. And I wanted you safe."  
  
"Well, clearly he wasn’t above torturing you. And I can take care of myself."   
  
"Not the first time, won’t be the last," Hawke muttered. "And I promised mother I would keep you safe. You’re my little sister after all."  
  
"I am not just your little sister anymore," she said quite sternly. "I am Bethany Hawke, an Amell and a mage, and you do not get to run my life."  
  
"Fair enough," he admitted. "Right now I’m making enough of a mess of my own."  
  
"You really are. But thank you for rescuing me all the same." Her hands resumed their gentle arches.  
  
"Thank you for rescuing me back. How did you convince Zevran?"  
  
"I couldn’t. Not until we were back where we were meeting with Isabela and Fenris. By then he considered his promise to you were technically true, and so we split ourselves in two parties and went to search for you. Merrill went with Isabela and Fenris, they needed a mage for backup. And I was quite safe with him, he really is rather amazing."  
  
"Oh no, don’t tell me you and him…" Hawke groaned, and got a slap on the back of the head for his troubles.  
  
"No, get your mind out of the gutter. He’s not that bad once you learn how to filter out almost everything he says."  
  
"What happened to the little sister who blushed crimson at the Blooming Rose?"  
  
"She got taken to the circle and grew up. That was a long time ago Ian, I’m not a little girl anymore."  
  
"I know. I’m sorry it had to happen that way. Anders and I wanted to break you out of there, but then you would have to flee Kirkwall, and mother…" Hawke broke off.  
  
"I know. That’s why I said no when you implied it in your letters. And there were some good things too. I learned a lot. Found some good friends. Dead now," she added sadly.  
  
"So many people are," he said, very quietly.  
  
"I’m glad you’re not," she admitted. "I made Sebastian promise he wouldn’t kill you, but I wasn’t sure if he’d keep his word."  
  
"I’m just glad he didn’t hurt you." The hands moving over his back paused long enough for him to ask "He didn’t hurt you, right?"  
  
"No, he didn’t. Whatever else he has become, he’s still a gentleman."  
  
"A gentleman who was going to cut my hand off," Hawke pointed out.  
  
"I can’t blame him for hating you."  
  
"And if he tried to cut it off again?"  
  
"I would kick his ass so hard he wouldn’t land until in Par Vollen."  
  
"Now that’s my little sister," Hawke said proudly.


	13. Chapter 13

The Vimmark Mountains were colder than the forest, and by now the snow had started in earnest. It was not yet thick enough to be a hindrance, but if it kept up, they might be in big trouble. The cart had been pushed down a ravine, the horse now carrying their meager supplies. They had done their best to avoid any larger settlements, heading straight towards the coast, and the place where they had agreed to meet up with Isabela’s ship. It was perhaps a bit of a risk heading the most obvious way, but they had seen no sign of pursuit so far, so perhaps Varric’s initial ruse had been successful. Maybe Sebastian had no idea Hawke had even been smuggled out of Starkhaven. He would like that, the rogue thought to himself. But not as much as he would like being back to his old self.  
  
"I’m still sore," he complained, stretching a bit where he leaned against his dog. The mabari was a warm, comforting presence in the cold forest. "Sore and itching to be precise. This is going to scar, isn’t it?"  
  
"You’ll learn to live with it," Bethany said with a shrug, cupping her hands over the wet branches until they flared to fiery life. "At least you’re not walking around with your stomach cut open and both your legs punctured by arrows."  
  
"When you put it that way," the rogue said, scratching Woofles’ head a little. Anders would have been able to take care of it all quite easily, but he was a healer, and his sister knew some healing spells. There was apparently quite a difference between the two.  
  
"I wouldn’t piss her off if I were you, Ian" Varric cautioned, spreading the furs around the campfire. "I don’t want to spend an hour searching for dry wood, if there even is any with this blighted weather."  
  
"So that is what I am reduced to now?" Bethany asked. "A combination of an elf-root potion and dry tinder?" The flames flared a little higher, and she sat back with a pleased look on her face.  
  
"Well," Hawke said, attempting to mollify her. "That’s usually Anders job, yes."  
  
"Ah, I would guess that there is more to his job than that, Champion? He does have a rather handy staff as well. Fits quite snugly, yes?" The Antivan made a rather rude, but very descriptive gesture with his hand before getting back to butchering the deer the dogs had brought in.  
  
"Ewww, Zevran," Bethany protested, blushing a little. "That is my brother you’re talking about."  
  
"And Sunshine did have a bit of a crush on Blondie before it became clear which Hawke he was interested in," Varric supplied, adding some more branches to the fire.  
  
"My apologies, beautiful," the assassin said, sketching a bow. "And these two brutes are simply not appreciative enough of your presence. Without you, these woods would be sorely lacking in grace."  
  
"And luckily lacking in soldiers as well," Hawke said, scratching is sore wrist. The manacles were still there and even wrapped in cloth they were heavy and chafing. Finding a way to get them off seemed near impossible until they hit a larger town. The dwarves had known their business. "Perhaps the darkspawn have eaten them all."  
  
"That is most likely true," Zevran said, tossing part of a leg to Feathers to keep him calm while he finished butchering the animal. "Why, during the blight we often saw…"  
  
"No need for that," Hawke interrupted with a glance at Bethany. "We don’t need more horror stories tonight." He scratched his wrist again. Sore. Aching. " Maker’s breath, I wish I could get these blasted things off!" He had a shorter temper than normal, but that came from chafing, hurting and worrying, all at the same time.  
  
"Aaah, yes, about that," Zevran said. "I do know a way of getting them off your hands at least. An old Crow trick for those times when you just can’t pick the locks."  
  
"And you choose not to mention this before why?" Ian asked, still scratching his wrist.  
  
"The procedure is… a bit on the uncomfortable side," the assassin admitted. "Tried and tested though, I’ve done it myself many a time."  
  
"Well then, Charming, don’t hold us in suspense." Varric had finally settled on a nickname for the elf, after discarding the obvious one. They already had one Rivani, to add an Antivan would quickly become a theme, and they couldn’t have that now, could they?  
  
"It is quite simple really," the assassin explained, dropping the knife so he could gesture more freely. "A simple dislocation of the thumb and the chains should come off quite easily."  
  
"We are not dislocating my thumbs," Hawke said, raising his hands in protest. "No," he added when he saw Varric look thoughtful, "my hands are staying right this way, not dislocated and with all the wiggliness of the fingers intact. Understood?"  
  
"It is your hands, Hawke," the dwarf said with a shrug. "We should reach civilization in a week or so if the weather doesn’t turn fouler. Hopefully we won’t have been eaten by darkspawn by then."  
  
"Oh I am sure I will be quite safe with such an overwhelmingly manly dwarf to protect me," Hawke said, swooning a bit in Varric’s direction. "That beard…"  
  
"Joke all you like, Hawke, but we’ve been pushing even your luck a little too far lately." Varric stroked his beard a little all the same.  
  
"So," the Antivan started, "we now have meat. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go wash this gore of before it sticks."  
  
"The assassin doesn’t like blood on his hands?" Varric asked, beating Hawke to the punchline. The rogue did not look too happy at that.  
  
"Blood is like semen," the elf started, dragging the remains of the carcass to the side for Feathers to start chewing on. "The fun part lies in getting the stains. Not in keeping them."  
  
"I’m not listening," Bethany intoned to herself. "Maker, why does he keep saying these things?"  
  
"If he’s anything like me, it’s a compulsion," Hawke said, shifting a bit since Woofles was getting up. The old mabari might be patient, but he was still hungry.  
  
"Oh, so that is the explanation," Varric said, arching an eyebrow in Hawke’s direction. "And here I thought you had been dropped on your head as a child."   
  
"He dropped himself," Bethany supplied. "Repeatedly. He was like a cat, always climbing trees, never figuring out how to get down as easily as he got up. The number of times father had to heal him…"  
  
"A cat?" Varric laughed. "No wonder Anders likes him."  
  
"No wonder he settled for a healer," Bethany added, sharing a companionable smile with the dwarf.  
  
"Well, if you two are going to be like that, I am going to go and clean up as well, I’m itching all over from these blighted scabs." Ian rose to his feet and tried to look a little less like he was walking off in a huff. But, if one listened to the giggles that followed, he didn’t really succeed.  
  
The path down to the stream was rocky and steep, and he had to tread very carefully to get there. That was the reason they had chosen their campsite away from it in the first place. Well, that and the fact that wolves and wild creatures tended to come to water to drink. Not the best place to make a camp in the wilderness. Far better to walk that extra bit to carry water.  
  
"Watch your step, Champion," the Antivan voice rang out in the dusk. The sun had set, but enough light still colored the sky to make the descent easier. "There’s ice, rocks, and some nasty little tanglebushes that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy."  
  
"Thanks for the warning," Hawke muttered, then sat down on a rock as he reached the bottom of the gully. "Sorry for being an ass before, about coming back with Bethany. She was right. You two most likely saved our skin."  
  
"I am sure you would have found some way to wiggle out of it on your own," the assassin generously offered, hunching down to scrub his hands in the cold water. "In my experience, men of your kind usually do."  
  
"Men of my kind?" the rogue asked, unwrapping the cloth from the manacles surrounding his wrists.  
  
"The resourceful kind." Zevran buried his hands in the sand, using it to scrub his fingers and nails, rather fastidiously.  
  
"Speaking of resourceful," Hawke said, scratching the skin where the metal kept rubbing against it. "How did you learn that trick with the manacles?"  
  
"Basic Crow training," the assassin shrugged. "You have someone else dislocate it for you at the start, after a few times it becomes easy enough to do it yourself."  
  
"So let me get this straight, your training included getting thumbs dislocated?"   
  
"Oh, not just thumbs. Shoulders too. That can be quite handy if you are tied with rope in the not so sexy way. Not hips though, except once or twice so you would know how to get the joint back in its socket if you fell wrong." Zevran sounded almost happily matter of fact about the whole thing.   
  
"Suddenly I find myself very happy that I’m just a smuggler and not an assassin." Hawke kept caressing his hand, flexing his thumb tentatively.  
  
"I would rather be a well-trained assassin than a dead one. Those are usually the only two alternatives." The assassin examined his hands, apparently satisfied with the result of his grooming. "I happen to enjoy life."  
  
"True enough," Hawke said with a sigh. "I suppose I should just suck it up and get it over with." Somehow it felt easier here, out of sight of his sister and Varric. Or maybe it was just that he had enough time to think about it.  
  
"If you have not done it before, it will hurt." There was a faint tone of concern in the elf’s voice as he walked over to where the rogue was sitting.  
  
"Better than having my wrists chafed raw and having my sister look at me like I’m a coward," Hawke admitted.  
  
"Ah, yes, she is a feisty one." Zevran knelt next to the rogue, taking one of Hawke’s hands in both of his own, running fingers over the manacle.  
  
"She’s my sister," Hawke pointed out, trying to relax his hand. It wasn’t easy, both because he kept suspecting what Zevran was about to do, and because the elf’s hands were very, very… not soft exactly. There were calluses there, but there was just something so very careful in the way he touched him. A gentleness he had not associated with the assassin. "Touch her and I can still kick your ass." He had to add the last to keep his mind off where it wanted to go. The gutter.  
  
"It is not her I am touching, yes?" came the teasing answer, quickly followed by a painful wrench to one thumb that had Hawke choking down a howl of pain. "And you could never take me."  
  
"I…" Hawke gasped as the manacle was eased over his aching hand. "I could take you with one arm tied behind my back." Oh Maker, that went somewhere he hadn’t meant to. Or had he?  
  
"But how about both?" Zevran had leaned very close now, so he could brace the other man as he yanked the thumb back in position. The rogue had choked down the cry better this time, but still jerked a little when the elf reached for the other hand. "I find that being tied up is generally a lot more fun if done thoroughly."  
  
"I… am not sleeping with you," Hawke said, managing to keep still as Zevran begun to stroke his other hand like a frightened kitten. It was impossible to relax, but also impossible to remain tense forever.  
  
"Oh Champion," the assassin said with a soft laugh. "Who said anything about sleeping?" The quick jerk when he dislocated the other thumb interrupted any answer the rogue might have, so the elf quickly slid the manacle off before yanking it back again.   
  
"That… was surprisingly easy," Hawke lied through gritted teeth, leaning against Zevran, who kept stroking his hands. He would like to pretend it was because he was still shaking with adrenaline and pain, but the truth was he just liked the contact.  
  
"It is not the first time I have done it." It seemed the Antivan was incapable of saying anything without making it sound like a proposition. His fingers teased the rogue’s palm, finding a sensitive path between calluses from years of dagger use.  
  
"Dislocated people’s thumbs, or tied them up?" Hawke tried not to sound so very breathless. He wasn’t sure he succeeded.  
  
"Both," Zevran admitted with a shrug. "Sometimes at the same time. Though not for fun then. It is a good little torture if you don’t want to mark especially pretty skin."  
  
"A little torture," Hawke said, gently flexing his hands. They worked, though the flesh was very sore still. He’d have to ask Bethany for help with that later. "I shudder to think of what you would think would be a big one."  
  
"How about what you are doing right now, Champion?" Zevran said, voice deceptively serious. "We both know how this one will end. No use prolonging the inevitable, yes?"   
  
"No," Hawke said, "that is, no to the yes part, not the no use part…" Was he babbling? Yes he was. "I am not agreeing anyway. Prolonging is fine with me. I love Anders."  
  
"What has love got to do with anything?" The question was asked with a quizzical expression that made the elf look downright endearing.  
  
"A lot." Hawke swallowed hard, because the Antivan was still on his knees in front of him and it would be the simplest thing in the world to just lean forward a little bit and kiss him. "I don’t want to hurt him."  
  
"Do you tell him everything?"   
  
"No," Hawke admitted. "I don’t." But could he do this? Wanting was one thing, because Maker’s breath he wanted this as badly as he had ever wanted Isabela. Part curiosity, part fascination with the sleek lethality of the other party, and part simple horniness. But the parts didn’t matter, the fact still remained. Zevran was not Anders. And he loved the mage.  
  
"I think you think too much, Champion," Zevran said when the silence between them grew too heavy.  
  
"Perhaps," Hawke said with a wan smile. "Let’s get back to camp before they come looking for us." The last was said with what he hoped was a suitably dismissive tone.  
  
"A pity," the assassin said with the faintest of shrugs. "But as you wish.   
  
They didn’t say another word until they were back around the fire, where things were safe and public once more.  
  
…  
  
A week later, the snow was coming down thickly enough that Hawke started to fear the pass south might be blocked. His hands were back to normal now, and his back just slightly tender, but walking with the manacles around his feet was still a chore. He kept up, but that was all thanks to Bethany. He had made it a point not to end up alone with Zevran again after that incident, and luckily they were all exhausted enough after a day on the road that it was all they could do to make camp once darkness fell. The dwarf and the Antivan traded stories until it was time for the first watch, and more often than not Hawke fell asleep with his sister on one side, and his dog on the other, huddling together for warmth. It was almost like being back in Ferelden, running from the blight.  
  
At least they had not run into anymore darkspawn. The roads through the mountains had mostly been deserted, travelers fearing what the weather could throw at them. The occasional hunter and trader they encountered told them nothing new, the weather was far too cold, and people were already talking like this would be another wolf’s winter. The mountain was teeming with them, most packs stayed clear of the well-armed party with their two mabari, but now and then some were willing to test their defenses. It never ended well for them. But there were always more were they came from.  
  
Woofles was the one that spotted them first, a short, sharp bark of ‘Wolf!’ that made them all pause and go for their weapons. But this wolf was neither part of a pack nor a starving straggler; it trotted at the side of a heavily armored stranger.  
  
"Templar," Bethany hissed, and from the look, she wasn’t wrong. The armor had a vagueish templar feel to it, though it was impossible to say for sure since it was mostly covered by a thick, fur-rimmed coat with the hood up.  
  
"Stay calm Sunshine, he’s coming from the south, not the north. Chances are he’s just migrating north for the winter," Varric said, calming the horse he was leading. "Just like geese."   
  
"Goose or not, he’s still a danger to my sister and any other mage out there," Hawke muttered under his breath. "I say we kill him." He reached for the Antivan dagger strapped to his back. Varric had not only got his pawned daggers, he had also got most of his armor, and now that his back was well enough he had taken to wearing it.  
  
"You’ve grown vicious, Ian," Varric replied quietly. "Are we killing people on sight now?"  
  
"What if we are?" he whispered back. "This is a war, remember?"  
  
"I remember no such thing," said the dwarf. "I am here to help a friend. Not join a crusade."  
  
"Sometimes the two are one and the same. Believe me, I know."   
  
"I am not you," the dwarf explained. "I’m more than happy to pull the trigger, but he’s just a lone man. If he is trouble, we can take him."  
  
As if it had heard an understood what they had discussed, the wolf growled and bared its fangs. The man made a move for his sword, and Hawke sighed to himself as he pulled his own daggers in return.  
  
"There can we go on with killing the threat now?" he asked.  
  
"Be my guest," Zevran offered, surprisingly accommodating.  
  
That, Hawke realized later, should have been his first cue that something was wrong.


	14. Chapter 14

"Feathers, no!" Bethany cried out, but it was already too late. The young mabari was already on edge after several earlier wolf attacks, and was crossing the distance to the strangers with long, bounding leaps. 

"Maker’s breath, Woofles, hasn’t you taught the pup anything?" Varric said as he readied his crossbow. He didn’t fire though, just kept it pointed at the armored stranger.

The young dog leapt at the wolf, which evaded the attack with dangerously fluid grace. Sharp teeth flashed, and Bethany cried out again, raising her staff to the skies to protect the mabari.

The air shivered, then flashed brightly blue, the blue of lightning bolts and frozen ice. A blue that hurt to even think about, and which left them half blinded as Bethany collapsed backwards with a cry as her powers were overwhelmed and turned against her. 

"Templar," Hawke growled, tearing free of Zevran’s hand. Woofles was one step ahead of him, heading off to help the outmatched pup. 

The stranger had drawn his sword now, holding it point down in a strange stance the rogue had never seen before. Something was off, something was wrong, but his sister had been hurt and that bastard was responsible. Besides, he had no magic to drain, and even heavy armor such as this was not proof to his daggers. Everything had joints.

Except that he kept missing. It was an unfamiliar feeling, always one step behind, the hits he had been sure would land simply scraped over armor and tore through the thick cloak. It was like fighting shadows. Was he that slowed by the added weight around his feet? He wasn’t as fast as he would like, but he was still a lot faster than the man he fought. He just kept missing, and what didn’t miss, the armor dealt with. Still, it wasn’t like he was new at this game. He had dueled the Arishok and walked away… well, crawled away, but the important thing was that he had lived. And if this man had protections that made him mistime his blows, then he just had to try harder. It wasn’t like the stranger had managed to hurt him so far, they kept circling in an awkward dance of glancing blows.

And then he spotted the opening. Just a small mistake of footing on the armored man’s part, but he went for it without hesitation. A quick roll brought him past the slender sword to stab at the unprotected back and everything flashed blue again. Paler blue, Lyrium blue, ghostly blue, and he felt his dagger hit flesh but draw no blood. The man had ghosted as the blade struck home, ethereal and see-through in a way he had only seen once before. Fenris. But this was not the elf, this was a man, and as Hawke jumped back he felt his foot hit a patch of ice, and when did he slip on things? He didn’t slip on things.

Except that he did. He hit the ground hard, hearing Feathers yelp in pain as the wolf had turned into a swarm of bees and surrounded the dogs. Wolves didn’t do that, this was wrong, and he could swear there was magic involved, but with Bethany down they had no defense. He had been prepared for a Templar, not this… whatever it was. He kept trying to stand, but the ground kept spinning, and a foot kicked out and sent his Antivan dagger flying from his hand. It landed in the snow, and Hawke could almost swear he heard it hissing.

"That’s enough!" Zevran’s voice rang out, and miraculously the stranger stepped back, fading back to solidity onto the snowy slope. "I mean, that it’s silly for us to fight when we’re on the same side, yes?"

"Zevran, is that you?" the stranger asked in surprise. The bees coalesced back, not into a wolf, but into a rather massive bear, looking like it would look forward to take the elf’s head off in one swipe.

"Ah, yes, it is me," the assassin started, looking nervously at the approaching bear. "And no matter how enticing it is watching you two fight it out, we only just put our Hawke together again. He is not really at his best." 

Hawke wondered to himself whenever he had become Zevran’s Hawke, but the important thing was that the disorientation faded as if it had never been. Definitely magic, nothing physical could fade that quickly. He’d gotten far too used to rely on Anders dispelling these things, most of the time eh never even noticed something was wrong before it was gone.

"I don’t care if I’m at my blighted best. That templar bastard hurt Bethany," he growled, looking back to where his sister lay slumped in Varric’s arms.

"She will be fine," the stranger said, sheathing is sword before pulling off the templar helmet. "I’m not a templar, I’m a mage." 

The man didn’t look much like any mage that Hawke had met; he looked at home in sword and armor. Everything from the weathered face with its hooked nose that looked like it had been broken more than once; to the dark hair chopped short to be worn inside a helmet spoke of a man used to a life in battle. Still, there was something slightly familiar about him, like a ghost of something he couldn’t quite place. It was enough to make him call off the growling dogs, which slunk back to protect Bethany.

"He’s not lying," Zevran assured, perhaps sensing Hawke’s disbelief. "Hawke, meet Jamail Amell, former Commander of the Grey and otherwise known as the Hero of Ferelden. Jamail, meet Ian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall."

"Amell?" Hawke said, remembering what his mother had told him. That her cousin was the mother of the Hero of Ferelden, though he, like her other children had been scattered across Thedas when they showed signs of magic and were taken to the circle. Maybe that was the slightly familiar feeling that haunted the other man, a ghost of his mother’s family. "My mother was an Amell. A cousin of yours if she didn’t get it wrong."

"I’m sorry," the other man said, looking a bit uncomfortable. "I don’t really remember much about my family. The circle didn’t exactly encourage contact."

It was amazing, Hawke thought to himself, how mentioning the circle could get some mages to just shrivel up a little bit. Not as bad as Anders this time, but it still made his gut hurt just a little. If they hadn’t kept things secret, that could have been Bethany making the same face. Bethany…

Without a word he turned and ran back to his sister, who was just coming to in Varric’s arms. “Bethany?”

"She is fine, Hawke," the dwarf assured. 

"That is an overstatement," Bethany whispered, a hand covering her eyes. "I feel like the morning after Isabela taught me and Merrill body shots."

"She did what?" Hawke exclaimed. "Why did I never hear of this?"

"Because you would react just like this, Hawke." The dwarf patted his arm a little, then frowned. "Why is Charming making faces at that bear?"

Hawke turned, and indeed the elven assassin was having a rather animated conversation with the threatening bear. Apologizing from the look of things. The bear did not seem to approve. 

"I assure you, my dear," Zevran said with what looked like slightly nervous gestures. Hawke had thought nothing could rattle the assassin. "Those days are long since over. I have conceded my defeat and moved on."

The bear reared up on its hind legs, placing a massive paw on the elf’s narrow shoulder, baring its teeth in a threatening rumble.

"Please, love," Amell said with a pained sigh, "I really wish you wouldn’t threaten to eat him every time he shows up."

"I second that," Hawke said, giving the bear an incredulous look. "For all we know, he’s probably poisonous." Love? There were apparently things about his cousin of sorts he really didn’t want to know. 

"I think it would be more correct to say I am an acquired taste, yes?" Zevran said, giving Hawke a look filled with more meaning than the rogue would have liked.

The bear roared once, the sound enough to make both mabari and the elf jump backwards. Then its shape shifted, melting into a thin, dark haired woman far too underdressed for the weather.

"As wily as ever I see," the woman said coldly. "One day you will try your silver tongue on someone that will rip it out."

"I have tried it on you, my dear, and I am still in one piece." The elf bowed humbly.

"I sense a story that needs telling," Varric interrupted. "Why not do it the civilized way, around a campfire with our weapons sheathed?"

"It is getting dark," Hawke agreed with a look at his cousin. Well, second cousin, but relatives were relatives. He had few enough of them as it were.

"And getting cold," Amell agreed with a look at the woman’s scantily clad form.

"Do not worry on my behalf," she said with a haughty look. "The Korcari Wilds gets far colder than this in the deep of winter. Cold does not bother me."

"Well it bothers me," Varric said, rubbing his hands together. "And we still have half a deer since yesterday, so, dinner anybody?"

…

Darkness fell over the mountain, the fire painting heated gold over the people that circled it. Bethany looked like she was nursing a headache, leaning back against two very protective mabari, still quite uneasy about their guests. She had been exchanging pointed glances with Amell since they made camp, but had kept her silence apart from a few polite replies to his apologies. Varric had taken charge of cooking the meal, the dwarf looking every bit as if he would explode from curiosity. Hawke supposed he was biding his time, waiting for the story to unfold. As were they all. The only one that didn’t seem to care was Zevran. The elf was happily chatting away about old acquaintances with Amell, seemingly oblivious to the poisonous glares of the bear turned woman, who turned out to be an apostate called Morrigan. The Morrigan in fact, if Hawke remembered Varric’s stories correctly. The Morrigan that was the daughter of the Flemeth, the Witch of the Wild, and a powerful witch in her own right The Morrigan that abandoned the Hero of Ferelden on the eve of battle and disappeared into the night. The Morrigan that the man had found it impossible to forget, and had abandoned his post as Commander of the Grey to chase, eventually fading into legend.

It felt odd to just sit there, talking about how best to cook a mountain deer. You weren’t supposed to exchange cooking tips with legends, second cousins or not. Was that how people felt when they met him, Hawke wondered to himself. Had they expected some grand warrior like the blighted statue they had erected in Kirkwall, only to be disappointed when they found out that the champion was only a lanky, jumped-up smuggler with a foul mouth? Amell hardly looked imposing where he sat, but what he had done in battle… Hawke hadn’t even known mages could do that. Or wear armor. His father had always told him it interfered with drawing power from the fade, but this man had cast spells in full templar plate. Speaking of which…

"Why pretend to be a templar?" he asked, rubbing his ankles where the manacles had chafed them raw.

"It seemed the safest way to travel these days," Amell said, in is soft, slightly hesitant tone. Hardly the voice of a grand hero. "Nobody will bother a templar with a dog; even mages would rather skirt our path than try to slay us. And if they did…"

"You’d do what you did to me," Bethany said quite sharply. "I’ve never seen anybody do that before."

"To be fair, Sunshine," Varric added, "I haven’t seen any mage do what he did period. That bluish, glowing bit was something I thought only our broody elf was capable of."

"It is a talent mostly forgotten these days," Amell explained, serious as always. "I had an interesting conversation with an ancient elven spirit once, he taught me how to do this. I had no idea knowledge of this discipline still existed with the elvhen of today. I am glad to hear not all things are forgotten."

"Oh that is rich," Varric said with a laugh. "Imagine the look on the elf’s face if he knew he was being accused of being a mage."

"He’d probably sprain something trying to look even more disapproving than usual," Hawke agreed. "He’s not a mage," he explained to Amell. "Something was done to him by a Tevinter magister. He’s covered in Lyrium tattoos and that makes him able to do something that looks eerily similar to what you are doing."

"Fascinating," Amell said, eyes lighting up in interest. "I wonder if…"

"Don’t even think about it, Glowy," Varric warned. "You will understand if you meet him. He doesn’t take kindly to either mages or questions about his tattoos."

"But you have a point," Hawke said, scratching at the manacles. "If what you’re doing is similar to what Fenris does, do you think you can get these off without taking my feet with them?" He had seen the elf reach through armor and pluck a beating heart from a man’s chest after all.

"Most likely," Amell said after a glance at the chains. "If you trust me enough to hold very still."

Hawke pondered that for a moment, eyes seeking out Zevran. The elf had been listening to them talk, and just nodded faintly in affirmation. Trust. It surprised Hawke a little that he cared for Zevran’s view in this.

"At this point I’m desperate enough to strip down and dance around naked in the moonlight if I thought it’d somehow get them off." He scratched the itching flesh again, grimacing a little.

"Now that is an idea that deserves further consideration, yes?" Zevran smiled widely, while Morrigan gave him a cold look.

“‘Tis a wonder that you’ve survived this long without changing your ways,” she said, voice as sharp as frostbite.

"What can I say, my dear, I have a talent for survival." Zevran sketched a humble bow.

"And here I thought it was simply a talent for sleeping with the right people?" She gave Hawke a pointed look.

"I am taken," Hawke quickly filled in before things went out of hand again. "And can we get these off now? Please?"

In the end, it was not as hard as he would have imagined. Just utterly nerve-wracking. He had to sit there, bare feet and exposed manacles, while Amell did his glowy bit and brought the thin sword clean through the metal. The cuts where the blade had scraped skin were healed easily enough, and before he knew it, they were back around the fire, his feet free at last. Magic. It never amazed him what it could do. Amazed and scared. He’d never admit the latter to Anders, but it was the truth. Sure, his blades could kill as sure as any fireball, but… He sighed and pulled out his daggers to sharpen them while Varric pumped Amell for information about what had really happened with the Archdemon. The Bassrath-Kata was a dagger easy enough to care for with its straight edge, but the Antivan blade was something else entirely. The jagged edges required constant upkeep and…

“‘Tis here!” Morrigan snapped, lightning crackling around her curved hand as she stared at the dagger in Hawke’s hands. “I was not mistaken.”

"I never said you were, darling," Amell was as soft spoken as ever, but he had tensed as well the moment the dagger had been removed from its sheath.

"What?" Hawke asked incredulously. "I’m not about to stab anybody. I promise. And never before dinner."

"It’s true," Varric added, but the dwarf had dropped the meat and reached for Bianca. "Hawke might be a little testy at times, but even he can’t resist my cooking."

"Fools, I am surrounded by them." Morrigan’s frown deepened as she pointed to the dagger. "Can you truly be blind to what he holds?"

"A fine example of Antivan steelwork?" Zevran suggested. "I gifted him the blade myself in exchange for services rendered."

"And not the kind of services certain filthy minds can imagine," Hawke added before anybody else could. "But he’s right. It’s a dagger. It stabs people. What of it?"

"The rune inscribed upon it," Amell said, holding out his hand. "That is not regular Lyrium."

Hawke gingerly placed his dagger in the outstretched hand, and the primeval rune lit up, brightly crimson under the mage’s touch.

"Maker’s breath, Hawke, please tell me that you didn’t do this," Varric said with a groan at the familiar red glow. "I thought you talked me out of keeping the blighted thing so you could get rid of it."

"I planned to do that," Hawke said, ears coloring a little. "I gave it to Sandal to dispose of, and a few days later he gave me this. I thought it was safe."

"So did Meredith." Varric scratched his unfamiliar beard. 

"I think you had better tell us the whole story," Amell interrupted, still running calloused fingers over the dagger. "We are here for a reason, and it sounds as if that rune is part of it."

"Well, Glowy," Varric started, "if it is a story you want, then I have one to curl your hair. It all started with my brother Bartrand…"

…

 

"… and there you have it," Varric said, finishing his tale.

"Fascinating," Amell said, and kept running his fingers over the dagger, something which made Hawke downright uneasy. "I never imagined that something like that could be found in the deep roads."

"What can’t be found there," Hawke muttered, because in his experience every time they headed underground there was something going wrong. "So, what do you figure it is? A demon? Lyrium gone bad like cheese left too long on the shelf?"

“‘Tis no demon,” Morrigan said, watching the dagger carefully. “This is something else. Something far older. Far more dangerous. What happened to the rest of this corruption?”

"I have no idea," Hawke confessed. "We had to leave Kirkwall in a hurry; the Templars weren’t going to stand around in shock forever. I hope they buried the blighted blade, and the remains of Meredith with it."

"I very much doubt so," Amell said, holding up the dagger. "Something has awoken, and this small piece here is not what worried the spirits. We had been tracking the disturbance south when this thing here lured us off track."

"Well, good luck with that," Hawke said, realizing with no small amount of bitterness that this meant that he would have to give up one of his favorite daggers. "For once, this has nothing to do with us."

For once.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Anders' point of view.

 

  
"Ah,Vigil’s Keep, how I have missed those loomingly oppressive walls." The joke comes with a suitably charming smile, and nobody is close enough to call my bluff. I’m tired and sore from travelling too far too fast, and quite frankly terrified of being here again.   
  
"Those walls are all that stood between us and the Darkspawn when you rode off with Amell to save Amaranthine," Nathaniel replies, the first words he had spoken to me in three days. Of course it had to be to chastise me for something.  
  
"I suppose I should be grateful for their loominess then, it would have been a shame to come back only to find…" I am struggling to find a funny way to present the nightmares I had of coming back to the corpses of my friends, but this time words fail me.  
  
"You humans and your fear of stone," Sigrun scoffs, coming to the rescue. She got in the habit of doing that during the trip, saving me and Nathaniel from having to speak about things that both of us would rather forget. I love her a little more for it.   
  
"It’s not fear," I say, pursing my lips thoughtfully as we pass through the shadows of the Keep. "More of a sensible caution really. Stones are dangerous!  Have you ever been hit by one? It hurts. Darkspawn are soft in comparison." My grimace must have been appropriately funny because she laughs and pats my arm. Mission accomplished, and the banter takes another turn, away from me this time.  
  
I never thought I would be this glad to keep silent. By now think I am probably managing to keep up whatever facade my companions expect of me. Sigrun is a great help, she always was the type to bully people into talking, and when I talk, words come out, sometimes even funny words that makes people laugh and even Nathaniel has to pretend that he didn’t almost crack a smile. I’ve done it for so many years now that it’s a force of habit as much as anything, and once again there is no Justice to chide me for my lack of tact.  
  
There is also no Justice to assure me that I am doing the right thing. I miss him so badly. Another thing I can’t admit to people, because you are not supposed to miss being an abomination. It’s not that I don’t realize that we had to separate because things were quickly going from bad to worse, but that doesn’t change the fact that I haven’t felt this alone in over a decade. I miss Wynne, I miss Jowan, I miss Varric, Isabela and even Fenris, and Andraste’s painted nails, I miss Hawke. I miss being surrounded by people who know me, the real me, the man I had become during the years in Kirkwall and not… this Anders. The jokester. Who didn’t take a thing seriously, and then turned abomination, killed his fellow Wardens and ran off. I steel myself for glares once we enter the Keep, which is lucky because I am getting them. Not everybody knows me. Not everybody knows my story. But some do, and the rest will come morning.   
  
"Come, Anders, I’ll show you where you can sleep. Tall and grumpy can wrap things up down here." Sigrun grabs my hand and drags me off, leaving Nathaniel to explain my presence.  
  
"So, out of curiosity, how many people here want to kill me?" I ask once we climb the narrow stairs. The woolen cloak is damp from snow and heavy as sin, but I keep it on all the same. The hood grants me some measure of anonymity.  
  
"Oh, not as many as you’d think. We’ve had an influx of mage recruits when things started turning bad, and you’re quite the hero in some people’s eyes."  
  
"Not the Templars I assume," I know I shouldn’t sound so bitter, but these corridors remind me of things I’d rather forget. Of Wardens whose allegiance lay to the Chantry, sent here with the express purpose to keep an eye on things. On Amell. On me. Too many mages in the Wardens to be trusted, and while the Hero of Ferelden couldn’t be touched; a scandal with one of the mages he had taken under his wing and recruited would have been just what they wanted.  
  
"Former Templars," she said, giving me a look. The look. "We’re Wardens now."  
  
"So you are no longer considering yourself dead then?" I ask, sharper than I meant to. She doesn’t deserve my anger, but she doesn’t understand. We can’t erase our past, none of us. The taint inside might give us a new and shared purpose, but it doesn’t wash away a life of belief.  
  
"You’ve turned a whole lot pointier over the years," she says, with something like reproach.   
  
"I’m sorry." I put as much honesty as I can into the apology, because she deserves it. "I just want to know if I should be prepared for getting stabbed in the back by some zealot disagreeing with my actions."  
  
"Don’t worry so much. I’ve got your back. And honestly, most wants to give you a good kicking. Not a stabbing." She gives me a punch in the side that huts a bit more than she had intended. I hope.  
  
"I would prefer to avoid that as well," I say, with a smile that is only slightly strained, rubbing my newest bruise.   
  
"It’s good to have you back all the same. I know I’m not alone in that." And her smile is easy enough that I believe her.  
  
"Thank you. But I’m here to do a job, not rejoin the Wardens." I can’t ever escape what’s in my blood, but I can decide how I’m going to spend the years I have. And it’s not here. This place, no matter how necessary it is, is just a different form of escape for me.  
  
"Who are you and where have you stashed Anders?"   
  
The concern in Sigrun’s eyes makes me realize I’ve been slipping back again, so I shoot her a smile and a joke. “Anders might come out once I’ve had a bath, a night’s sleep in a not-freezing bed and something to eat. Until then you will have to settle for Grumpers I’m afraid.”  
  
The laugh I get in return makes the smile return to my lips for real, and it lasts until I am showed to my room and can close the door behind me. Alone. At last. I drop my cloak and my mask at the same time, sinking down against the wall, trying to stop my hands from shaking. For a while I just sit there, staring silently into nothing, trying not to think. But time doesn’t stop because a man wishes it so, and the knock on the door brings me to my feet. There are a dozen people I fear it could have been, but instead it is a young woman, most likely a new recruit. She still has that slightly haunted look the joining gives a person.  
  
"Greetings Ser, I’m Aida, I came here to deliver the food. It is past our normal mealtime, and the Commander instructed that I’d see to that you got fed in person." She waits until I move aside, letting her into my room with her tray of steaming stew and bread.  
  
"Ah, thank you. I’ve been told often enough that starving is not a good look for me, I’m glad Nathaniel agrees. Maybe Grumpers will go away." She shows no indication of having any idea who I am, her face has a Chasind look to it and she feels more a hunter than a Templar. Good. I can just be the guest then, a fellow Warden from strange places, come back to visit.   
  
"Grumpers?" She asks, obviously confused.  
  
"Never mind me. Or the words that come out of my mouth. They tend to escape at the worst of times really." It feels nice; suddenly I can pretend this is like visiting Gamlen in Lowtown, sometimes painful, always awkward, but generally not openly malicious. Even if I ended up being the girl. I smile at the memory of Hawke’s face, for once fighting for a witty retort with the memory of being bent over the bed still fresh in body and memory both.   
  
"I don’t mind Ser. Your words or you." She answers my smile with a faint blush, and Maker, apparently I still got it. She can be what, two score at most? And already her hips are tilting just so, her tongue darting out in a nervous little gesture I’m fairly sure she’s not even aware of. I should be flattered, but she just makes me feel older than ever.  
  
"Is the bath hall still functioning? I don’t mind if it’s cold, but I’ve spent days on the road and I think my clothes are close to taking a life of their own." I lean a little closer as we set the table together, closed enough for a hushed whisper "And I don’t think they like me very much."  
  
"The bath hall is open, but it won’t be warmed at this hour. And if you want new clothes, Ser, I can arrange for some new Warden robes to be delivered to you after supper."  
  
"Ah yes," I drawl. "The matching uniforms. Things have come so far since last time I was here and we had to settle for improvised rags scavenged from the locals." Inwardly I rile at the thought of dressing like everybody else, but it’s a childish concern I knew I should leave behind. Andraste’s silky hair, when did I become this vain? Oh, who am I fooling, I always was. Standing out. The individualist. Another thing I lost in Darktown, vanity shed, my coat the only thing I refused to let go of.   
  
"At leas they might feel nicer," she suggests with a smile and I sigh openly as I sit down at the table.  
  
"Yes, you’re right. Friendly clothes are nice no matter what, and blue is my color. I think I will chance getting confused for a proper Warden." Blending in. Such a loathsome prospect, but it might make things easier for me. Maker, I am getting old, when did I ever worry about making things easier?  
  
"But I was told you were a warden, Ser," she protests, confused.  
  
"Oh yes, I am. But I was never proper." A wiggle of my eyebrows brings the smile back to her lips, and as she leaves I eat my food with something akin to an appetite.   
  
…  
  
It is late when I finally venture down to the bath hall. I’d lie if I said it wasn’t planned. From experience I know that at this time of night there won’t be any people there. And, true to form the stone hall lies deserted, the air still damp and clean. Fed by a nearby river, the large stone basins are filled but cold. In the evening, fires are lit to bring the water to a more comfortable temperature, but right now they have all faded back to cold. Luckily I have other means. I strip off my wool and leathers, dropping my smallclothes on the pile as well. You don’t change clothes while travelling in the winter, and quite frankly I had forgotten what it felt like living in Darktown. Funny how a few years of luxuries and hot baths can strip away memories of filth and cold water. Maker, it really is cold, I dip my hand into it and my balls shiver into nothing. I debate with myself, a quick bracing scrub or a longer soak?  
  
Of course I would choose the soak, every time. I gesture with both hands, fire billowing out to cast crazy shadows over the walls. It takes more effort to hold it steady and wrap it around the stone basin, but who would I be if I hadn’t taken the extra effort to tweak a few spells a little? Magic could be used for so many things after all, if only people stopped fearing it. Sometimes I pity Hawke a little, that he will never feel what I feel, the thrill of controlling things that could easily consume you, but on the other hand I have seen the look on his face when he leaps off a roof into a crowd of people out for his blood and maybe we are not so very dissimilar after all. Not like me and…  
  
"Anders."   
  
The voice makes me jump, but I don’t let go of the flames. Instead I wrap them tighter, surrounding my hands as if they had been Hawke’s blades. “I see you’ve grown no less sneaky, Nate.” I refuse to blush, it’s not like the man hasn’t seen me naked before, and true to form, he turns away first. Coward.  
  
"I’ve been on the trail for as long as you have, and I’m not going to sleep smelling like a boar." His voice sounds tight and tired, and I wonder if he’s had time to eat yet, what with his duties and all.  
  
"Give me a moment and the water will be warm," I say, turning back to the stone basin. I shove my hands into the water, still aflame. The feeling is something akin to pain as the water fights with the fire I am channeling, but I hold the heat for as long as I can before I let it go and my shoulders sag a little.  
  
"I can come back later."  
  
"Don’t be ridiculous," I say with a sigh, sliding into the tub. The water is hot, almost too hot, and my skin reddens like a lobster. Still, I can’t very well leap out of it and keep my dignity, so I endure and have the pleasure of watching Nathaniel disrobe. Maybe it’s not just the water that makes me flush.  
  
"Anders!" He gasps as he slides, in, and my name is a curse again on his lips. "You could have warned me that this thing is boiling."   
  
"What would be the fun in that?" I say, one eyebrow rising with certain smugness. "Don’t tell me that the Warden of the Grey can’t handle the heat."  
  
"Don’t tell me you are sitting there suffering just so you would have a chance to make that sad excuse for a joke." His face is stony, sweat and steam turning his long hair dark and heavy.  
  
"Lucky coincidence," I say, placing my hands palm down on the surface as I build the tiniest of icebergs. It melts almost instantly, but the temperature drops from scorching to hot, and we both breathe a sigh of relief. None of us pretends to notice that the other did as well.  
  
"I’ve learned by now that there’s nothing coincidental about you, or your actions."  
  
"Really? I’m glad one of us thinks so. I for one am glad that not everybody thinks I’m a power hungry magister manipulating everybody around me." I try to be funny; I even make my best Tevinter impression, which turned out to be far more subdued than the truth now that I’ve actually been there.  
  
"Can we not do this right now?" Nathaniel looks pained, and he had to be, to actually ask something of me.   
  
I should make a funny comment about the lack of a please, or whether they have scheduled hours for snappy banter now together with their matching uniforms, but I am fast realizing I am here alone with him. Just us. Nobody else. This is not something I particularly want, but I’ve been facing a lot of demons from my past lately, so in comparison Nathaniel shouldn’t be as scary. I wish. Oh Maker I wish so many things.  
  
He looks older; I can see that now that I take the time to look. Not his face, which has the same ageless severity as always, forced into maturity by the death of his family. But his body betrays what his face hides. His frame is heavier, and his scars have multiplied, and part of me blames myself because had I been the one to heal him, there would have been but a whisper of white to betray the wounds. Not these gouges. I look up, and find him watching me with much the same expression, and my hand goes immediately to my chest and the deep scar over my heart.  
  
"I didn’t want to kill them, but quite frankly they killed me first." I look down at the water, preferring to do my confession without seeing his expression. "Or would have, but apparently being an abomination has some interesting side effects the Templars never told us about. Maybe they were worried that all the cool kids would start doing it." I look up with what I hope is a charmingly silly expression, only to meet a Howe thundercloud of massive disapproval.  
  
"Don’t joke about this," he says, and I actually feel a little bad. I can’t believe he still has that effect on me.  
  
"Would you rather we ignore the Bronto in the room?" I ask, more flippantly than I feel.  
  
"That is not the Bronto, and you know it."  
  
Isn’t that the truth. I sink a little lower in the bath, scratching the scar. The man I was died then, and was reborn of sorts in the ruins of a collapsing Tevinter tower. Ended by steel, reborn from stone. Still just a fragile bundle of flesh and emotions.   
  
"For what it’s worth, I’m sorry Nate." The words come out despite myself.  Talking was always easier than silence, no matter how painful the subject.  
  
"That’s not worth very much at all." At least I can trust him to be honest. I just wished I knew which Bronto he was talking about.  
  
"I know. I never planned for things to turn out like that." I stick with the vague, because right now I want to apologize for a lot of things. But I’m not sure which ones he would listen to.  
  
"Were you planning at all?" Nathaniel’s mouth turns sour and severe, and I know I’ve stepped in it this time.  
  
"Justice was decaying, and he didn’t want to go back into the fade. It seemed like a good idea at the time." I am picking a Bronto and running with it, leaving the other one ignored.  
  
"A good idea? To have yourself possessed?"   
  
"Together we could do things that neither of us could do alone," I explain, not for the first time. "Justice thought that it could work. A partnership. Together we could do what neither of us could alone. I hadn’t really considered it before, but…"  
  
"He might have got that idea from me."  
  
The silence falls so suddenly I have to look up at Nathaniel’s face to see if I really heard what I heard.  
  
"From you?" I probably sound as confused as I am.  
  
"I had no idea what he was planning, and I had no idea that you would be stupid enough to go along with it." Only Nathaniel could manage to get in both an excuse and an accusation in the same sentence.  
  
"Is that it?" I ask, because things are falling into place. "Do you feel guilty for giving him the idea?"  
  
"Do you feel guilty for walking out on me?" Of course Nathaniel deflects, but it wasn’t a bad deflection. This I can’t just ignore.  
  
"Yes, I do," I admit. "But I warned you. It wasn’t something that would last. Just something we both needed at the time."  
  
"You help me out. I help you out. We all walk away happily." He mimics my words with a bitterness that makes me feel surprisingly guilty.  
  
"Well, two out of three is not so bad," I say, reaching for the soap.  
  
"He’s good to you then?"  
  
I hesitate for a moment, then nods. “He is. He really is.”  
  
"I met him in the Deep Roads. He reminded me of you."  
  
"What? Smooth? Charming? Having a way with words?"  
  
"Someone who used words to cover what he felt."  
  
"Unlike you?"  
  
"Unlike me."  
  
"You can just come right out and say it you know. The worst I’m likely to do is toss the soap at you." I juggle it a little in my hand to prove my point.  
  
"Sleep in my room tonight."  
  
"Sleep with you, you mean?"  
  
"Not necessarily," he says, and from the wretched look on his face I actually believe him. "I’ve… missed you. Being Warden Commander doesn’t give you much time to nurture friendships. Or otherwise."  
  
I hold my tongue, biting back the fact that Amell certainly didn’t seem to have any problem with doing both, but he walked away soon after I did, so perhaps it is as hard as Nathaniel makes it out to be.  
  
"For old times sake?" I ask, tossing the soap to him, not at him.   
  
"For stupidity’s sake," he says with a voice rougher than a few minute ago. "I know you have made your choice, I’m just so tired. So desperately tired. It would be nice to pretend, just for a little."  
  
"Just for a little," I echo sadly, because the truth is that I could perhaps have loved this man if things were different. Maybe I did a little. At least I cared enough that I didn’t want him hurting like this.   
  
"You can tell me no," he says, lathering up the washcloth.  
  
"I could," I agree, because that’s something I always did love with Nathaniel. The man was a hedgehog when it came to personal relationships, slow and unsure and apt to make people back away in fear of being pricked. He was far too ready to believe no was an answer, I have no idea how desperate he must be to be as forward as this. Probably as desperate as I felt, agreeing to come here.  
  
"Are you going to?"  
  
I consider it, sinking a little deeper into the hot water. Would it be seen as a betrayal? Hawke and me had never really talked about things like this. I could say no, and Nathaniel would walk away and never bring it up again because that is the infuriating sort of person he is. Not out to seduce me. Not out to lure me away. Just lonely and tired and out of options. I can sympathize.   
  
I consider it and I find to my surprise that I don’t want to turn him down. I want to do something for this tired, overworked man shouldering burdens because there was nobody else that could. Some wounds are not physical, but I want to heal them all the same. I probably can’t. I probably will make things worse, but Andraste’s blighted ashes, this man deserves more than he’s got.  
  
"You’d better get cleaned up," I say, smiling a little to hide my uncertainty. "I’m not sleeping next to someone stinky tonight."  
  
"As if you are one to talk," he retorts, but there is a lightness to his words that weren’t there before.  
  
The hedgehog slowly unrolls before my eyes.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Anders' point of view.

  
I’m slowly sinking back into the all too familiar. The room is dark and the walls smell of memories I’d rather avoid. If I close my eyes I can hear laughter in the distance, and maker did I ever go to sleep completely sober back then? No matter how good the day had been, things always changed when the lights went out and the small windows might as well have been part of the Circle tower. How many nights had I woken up and walked over just to make sure the lack of view was not something I had imagined? That was the one thing that could be said for the circle. You could see for miles and miles over the lake, knowing you were going exactly nowhere. Here things were different, shadowy walls, cramped courtyards and the knowledge that if you wanted to, you could just walk into the hills and scream at the skies. Not that I did that often. More often once I found out that I was not alone in that feeling of closeted despair.   
  
 __  
Hills. Moonlight. Trees leaning close around the small campfire.  
  
"Is that an arrow on your bow, or are you just happy to see me?" A smile like the new moon, a waggle of all too sparkly fingers shedding light in the darkness.  
  
"Blast it, Anders, I thought you were a darkspawn." The arrow wavers, the bow lowered at the ground. Tension released into the air.  
  
"If that is supposed to be a compliment, you need to work on them, Nate." Pursed lips and a suggestively raised eyebrow, light feet crossing the distance between them.  
  
"It was not. I could feel your taint, and nobody else is usually up here this time of night." The frown, unwavering. Unlike the uncertainty of his shoulders.  
  
"Oh you want to feel my taint now? Isn’t that a tad personal?" Clever fingers plucking the arrow from blunt hands, twirling it a little.  
  
"If you are going to make fun of me again you might as well go away now. Or I will." A motion to turn away, chin set in a scowl.  
  
"Aren’t you a regular Ser Spikes-a-lot?" The arrow is tossed and the hand grabs hold of the departing shoulder instead.  
  
The night freezes, memories in amber.  
  
  
I sigh and keep looking at the ceiling. Nathaniel Howe. Professional grumpy bastard with a frown for every one of my smiles. Hating every minute of his life for much the same reasons I did. For having people look at us and make judgment, just for what we were. I kissed him first, he punched me in return and everything else was inevitable.  
  
He’s sleeping next to me now, both of us still half dressed because there’s no recapturing the past. He made a move to kiss me once we had returned, but I guess that something in my eyes stopped him. I’m not his anymore, not that I ever was. Not that he ever was mine. Not that either of us wanted to. Nobody would ever tie me down, and he wanted a wife to preserve the Howe lineage, and now we are both laying here as failures. I tied myself down tighter than I had ever dared to imagine, falling in love, finding a cause, my life belonging to everybody but myself. He’s got a family of everything but blood, the demands of being a Howe subsumed under the mantle of the Warden of the Grey. Nothing between us but the taint and memories.  
  
I’d like to think Hawke wouldn’t begrudge me this. A kindness. For him. No, for us, because had I been alone in my room I wouldn’t have got a moment’s sleep. But here? I might have a shot at unconsciousness with Nathaniel’s long limbs wrapped around me, his breath in my ear. Heavy. Safe. We’ve both been through too much together for embarrassment, but I still waited until he had drifted off until I called upon my magic. Maybe I am too protective, but I don’t trust those half-rate healers they have here. He was sleeping heavily enough that the blue glow didn’t disturb him, and I could let myself drift deeply into his flesh, feeling for all the aches and signs of pain. A healer can never turn back time, but I could adjust that tightness in his shoulder, the beginning aches in his joints, the slight swelling in hands far used to handling bows in cold weather. It’s less healing than tuning, finding all the small things that were wrong in his body, coaching them back to the way they were supposed to be.   
  
Maybe it’s my imagination, but he breathes a little easier once I’m done. Snuggles in a little closer, though he’d scoff at the notion that he might need anybody. Everybody needs a hug at times, without skin contact we lose a little bit of ourselves. We all need to touch someone once in a while. We need being held more than we need getting laid. Sometimes that’s all that’s needed. Someone being there for you. Even before I admitted falling for Hawke I did that once, in the Deep Roads. Memories. Nightmares, and in the morning I found myself tightly wrapped around him, unsure which one of us bridged the distance first. Neither of us spoke about it, but Varric kept whistling romantic tunes for the rest of the day. Nobody will barge in on us here. Not on the Warden Commander. Not on Nathaniel, because I doubt he’s grown more forgiving over the years. Nor less in need of someone to hold him.  
  
And I can finally sleep.  
  
…  
  
I hate being wrong. Apparently people do barge in on the Warden Commander, because the door is flung open and I’m on my feet before I’ve had time to think. Living the way I do, if you waited until you knew what was going on when you were attacked you’d be dead. Except this is not an attack, at least not of the lethal kind. Instead I’m greeted by a bone-crushing hug and a chest rasped by a stiff beard until I’m let go and can try to recover my breath.  
  
"Sparkle-fingers!" Oghren exclaims happily, thumping my shoulder and I’m suddenly very glad I’m wearing pants. "And here I thought they were all full of nug-shit."  
  
"Oghren?" I start, trying to recover. The dwarf looks much the same as I remember, eternally pickled and preserved like the wrinkled little cucumbers they liked in Kirkwall.  
  
"And don’t you know it," he says with a belch, thumping his chest a little. "Still the same dirty little mage I see." The look he casts at Nathaniel has me fearing for the dwarf’s life, but Nate only groans.  
  
"Oghren," he starts, shaking his head as he makes a grab for more clothes. I suppose I should too, but dignity was never my strong point.  
  
"That’s my name, don’t wear it out," the dwarf replies, scratching his beard. "Heh, looks like this sodding place is getting some life again. Maybe you’ll get that stick out of the Commander’s butt. At least if you keep working hard enough at it."  
  
"That’s not why I’m here," I start, but I’m already smiling and I know it. "I thought you would have picked up that slack? I know you were quite the admirer, and dwarves are used to crawling into deep, tight holes."  
  
"What? Are you? … No, you dirty-minded man-skirt wearing freak. Not in that way. I’m a married man and a father." The nervous belch makes my smile grow wider. Feral.  
  
"Oh since when did that ever stop anybody?" I say, pursing my lips thoughtfully. "Why I remember…"  
  
"I am still here," Nathaniel interrupts coldly, pulling his clothes on.  
  
"Oh we know," me and Oghren say as one, and the laughter feels so good.   
  
Friends. Some things in my past that I’ve missed.  
  
…  
  
And then there are other parts. More recent pasts. Things that should be buried and forgotten.  
  
The dungeons underneath the keep are as deep and dank as always. I wonder to myself if Nathaniel is thinking back to the time he was the one imprisoned here. Waiting for death. For revenge. For anything. In his own way, he’s as much of a victim of the Wardens’ mercy as I am. Saved. Or doomed. It all depends on how you see things. Maybe a second chance, just like I got a third and a fourth one. How many can a man get in a lifetime before the fates decide he’s had enough? Maybe that is what it is. The fates telling me that my time is up. There will be no more escapes. No more saviors. Just this.  
  
Just a small, isolated cell filled with malice so hot that I can feel it in my skin. They were right. This is Meredith; if I squint I can still see the semblance of a female shape in the glowing statue that she has become. Flesh. Stone. Lyrium. Metal. It is as if all the things she was and symbolized have been melted together in a pot of hatred and brought to life once more. The step she takes, she’s taken since I got here, and the foot has not yet touched the ground. Her head has started turning, and I know it is to look at me. I will have to leave before she’s turned completely, because to have her break her cycle of mindless pacing and head straight for me would be more than I could bear. I can far too readily imagine her walking to the locked door and through it, slowly heading up the stairs one step at a time. Relentless.  
  
"You’re looking pale, Sparkles, got a flask if you need something strong." Oghren pets my back; it’s just me, Nathaniel, Oghren and Sigrun down here.  
  
"Your brilliant plan is to knock me out before I’ve had a chance to examine this monstrosity?" I ask, focusing on breathing. My skin is prickling from the Lyrium.  
  
"Knock you out? Well, shave my back and call me a nug, have you lost all your skills in handling the drink? Oh, wait, I forgot you didn’t have any to begin with." The guffaw breaks the spell of horror, and Sigrun sighs to herself.  
  
"I know you won’t believe this, Anders," she tells me, "but there’s actually a loving father in there somewhere. Somewhere deep down, or so Felsi says."  
  
"Never trust women," Oghren says with a sage nod, sneaking the flask into my hand.  
  
"I haven’t really got drunk for ten years," I say, a bit distracted by the shape in the cell. Nathaniel plucks the flask from my hand and returns it to Oghren with a stern glare, and I’m a bit overwhelmed by the fact that I still have friends that care about me. That are ready to let bygones be bygones and worry about me after a decade of absence.  
  
"That settles it," Oghren says, emptying the flask. "You and me, mage, tonight, with a bottle."  
  
"One?" Sigrun asks.  
  
"For him," Oghren belches. "I’ve got my own stash. From the look of things the skinny sod would keel over if he sniffed anything strong."  
  
"And I should let you do this why?" she asks, hands on hips.  
  
"Because if you loosen up and live a little, you can come along. Maybe he’ll do his shimmy again. Bring your own poison."  
  
"There will be no shimmying," I protest, but the banter keeps me grounded, because I have no idea what I am face to face with here and it scares me. I can understand why Nathaniel didn’t bring anybody but the dwarves down here, the Lyrium is… Maker, I don’t even know what it is.  
  
"Are you alright, Anders?" Nathaniel touches my shoulder, and Oghren hoots and we both ignore him.   
  
"Don’t let anybody down here unless you can help it. At least not anybody not used to Lyrium." I take a step back from the cell.   
  
"I know. I wouldn’t be down here myself normally. It feels…" He shakes his head, looking at the cell. "You should speak with Dagna when she returns from Denerim tomorrow. She’s as close to an expert as we have on these things. She did a lot of work with Lyrium in the Circle."  
  
"Dagna? That’s a dwarven name, right?" I ask, because it is, and that sounds unlikely with the mention of the circle.  
  
"She’s dwarven," Sigrun says proudly. "Brightest little blighter I met outside of Dusttown."  
  
"Our walking dead has taken a shine to her," Oghren says with a cough that implies things that make me raise my eyebrows. "The girls’ got it her head that…"  
  
"Please," I interrupt. Could you just leave me here for a minute? I need some time alone with this."  
  
The silence is heavy enough to hear a pin drop, but the only sound is Meredith’s foot finally hitting the stones, step completed.  
  
"Are you sure about that?" Sigrun asks, as if she suspected I was on the verge of doing something stupid.  
  
"I wouldn’t ask otherwise," I reply with a lot more confidence than I feel.  
  
"If you say so," Oghren says with a belch. "I’ll be up top scaring some sense in the new nug-humpers pretending to be recruits. Come along, dead girl, you can pat them on the back when I make the little sods cry." Funny really, that the dwarf with the most disparaging things to say about mages would be the first to trust me. Sigrun follows him reluctantly, leaving me and Nathaniel.  
  
"I am not comfortable with this," he says, eyes narrowing. "I am the Warden Commander, I am responsible for this."  
  
"Don’t you trust me?" I ask, but the wiggle of my brows is half hearted.  
  
"I can’t afford to," comes the honest reply. "What are you planning to do?"  
  
"What I do best," I say with a sigh.  
  
"I hardly think funny banter will make her inert once more."  
  
"Things change Nate; apparently you’ve discovered a sense of humor about the time when I lost mine. Too bad but…" I walk over to him, turning my back on the cell. "I think she might still be alive in there. And aware of her surroundings. I think she recognized me."  
  
"Impossible," Nathaniel says, looking past my shoulder at the closed door. "It must be an abomination or something similar."  
  
"No, she’s not…"  I can’t believe I am contemplating what I am contemplating. But I am. Part of me hates myself but I can’t just leave things like this. "… I want to try to heal her."  
  
"Heal her?" Nathaniel looks at me like I am crazy. "Is there even anything left of her? And didn’t this woman want you dead?"  
  
"I do hate her," I admit. "But this is not Justice, this is torture. Trapped in this half-life or whatever it is… if I can separate idol from woman we would have two much simpler problems on our hands."  
  
"That is true," he admits, rubbing his chin. This is not Nate; this is the Warden of the Grey contemplating what would be best for Thedas. "Can you do it?"  
  
"I have no idea," I say, looking down at my hands. "That was what I planned on finding out just now. Try to get a feel for what is actually left of her."  
  
"And why did you insist we leave?"  
  
"Because I need to focus. I don’t need to be interrupted by a quip or a belch."   
  
"Fair enough. I will be quiet."  
  
"Nate. This might be dangerous."  
  
"I am Warden of the Grey. This is my responsibility. If it is dangerous, it is your responsibility to make it safe. For both of us. Understood?"  
  
"Yes, Ser," I say with the faintest of smiles. Blighted bastard, he knows that his presence pretty much a guarantee I will not take any stupid risks.  
  
"Get on with it then." Maybe I am imagining things, but there is a faint echo of my smile.  
  
Right. Now it’s down to business.  
  
Nathaniel doesn’t say a word as he opens the door to the cell before stepping back, and I can’t blame him. What could one say? Good luck? At least things could be worse? Anything would be an invitation to disaster, and we already have one here, stalking the cell on relentless feet. Meredith has completed her turn by now, and as I predicted she is looking straight at the door. At me.  
  
One of her hands has inched away from her hip and I imagine that it is being raised to point at me in accusation. If I waited here long enough, would the surface crack open in a mouth and words come out? Would she accuse me? Would she scream? Would she beg for help? No, not the last. My compassion does not go as far as stupidity. She was a bigoted, hateful woman, and most likely she is convinced that this is entirely my fault. Poor, deluded woman.   
  
I raise my staff, closing my eyes in preparation. This is hard, and even harder with this woman here staring at me with her melted features. That is why so few people have the affinity to be a spirit healer. In order to reach across the fade and ask for help, you need to free yourself of the things that burden you. Forget your fears. Let go of your hatred. Calm your anger. Your mind needs to be a deep, calm pool of blue compassion, the strife of the world around you forgotten. In battle this is hard; you cannot even think about striking back or hurting your enemies. I always managed by focusing on the friends I wanted to help. How it felt to hold them. Love them. Feel for them. Empathy came easy at the start, but as Justice turned to Vengeance that part of me grew weaker, harder to call upon. I never told Hawke, but that was partly why I spent less and less time at the clinic, the healer finding it increasingly hard to heal.  
  
But now I am alone again.  
  
When I open my eyes, everything is pre-dawn blue, the air filled with cobwebs of brilliant life. Nathaniel is a steady heartbeat at my back, strong and vital. In front of me, the black void corrupts everything it touches. I nearly yank back my staff, but a healer can never hesitate. You lose lives that way; you need to be confident that what you are doing is right and true. The shape in front of me is not an abomination, no demon of the fade; it feels different than anything I’ve ever touched. If the Primeval Thaig was a cold fireplace and the relic a glowing ember, this is a devouring flame. But there is life there all the same. I can feel it, deep down, the living and the inert woven together in a tapestry of pain. Maker, she might still be alive in there.  
  
And there is something missing, a crack in the pattern, a seeping wound. It calls to me like a sword through the gut, an infection raging, something that is Wrong but which I can make Right. I can feel it. Healing is never forcing, always helping, bodies know how they are supposed to fit together. Even now. Even this. There is a heart in there, beating slowly like a sleeping dragon. I can feel it pulling at me, and I reach out with my staff and Nathaniel is screaming something at my back.  
  
I am not listening. I can’t listen. The power here is enough to flay the flesh from my bones if I lose control, and this body WANTS to be whole. I’m not the master, just the conduit, and the power streaming through me from the fade bathes the cell in blue and red and then the strain becomes too much, the world turns inside out, and my staff explodes in splinters and in blackness.


	17. Chapter 17

Hawke rubbed his hands together, shuffling forward in the snow. At least they were heading downhill now, which made things simpler in the drifting snow. His step was lighter now that the chains were off, and his aching muscles healed. All in all, he felt pretty good about himself. A distant cry of a bird broke the silence, and he pulled the hood back to listen.   
  
"Was that a seagull?" he asked to nobody in particular.  
  
“‘Twas not a gull,” Morrigan replied, she had joined him at the head of their little caravan, moving through the snow with more grace than even Zevran. “The sea is two days off and they do not move inland in the winter.”  
  
"I could have sworn it sounded like one," Hawke said lightly, shooting the dark-haired woman a disarming smile.  
  
"I could have sworn you sounded like an intelligent man. It seems we were both wrong." Her gaze was even and haughty, but that had never stopped Hawke before.  
  
"And here I thought you were never wrong?" he asked innocently, getting the smallest of smiles in return.  
  
“‘Tis a rare thing indeed, but even I am not infallible.”  
  
"Good. I’m far fonder of fallible persons." Hawke cast a look over his shoulder, making sure that the others were keeping up. They were, Amell wrapped up in a discussion with Bethany, Zevran hovering at the edges of it, leaving Varric to bring up the rear.  
  
"Then you are not the kind of man that hates himself?"   
  
"Oh far from it," Hawke assured with a grin. "I’m far too fond of myself and my fallibilities. As are you from the look of things."  
  
"Oh, why is that now?"  
  
"You are up here, talking to me after all, instead of back with your man, defending him from Zevran’s clutches."  
  
"He is not my man any more than I am his woman. We are equals, and thus I have no need to defend him from the elf. I won that war ten years ago, why should I be frightened of someone I have already beaten? As for why I am in front, had I not been here you would have led us down the wrong path half an hour ago."  
  
"I see," Hawke said as he scratched his neck. "I will still settle for it being my charm that keeps you here anyway."  
  
"It is a sign of a weak man that he cannot face reality." The mocking was almost affectionate this time.  
  
"Ouch."  
  
"Did I wound your fragile sense of self esteem?"  
  
"No," Hawke frowned, reaching back towards his daggers, "I felt something…" They had contemplating what to do about his runed dagger yesterday, but since Hawke had been carrying it for years with no apparent ill effects they had decided that he was the safest one to keep it until it could be deposited at the bottom of the ocean. Or something. Hawke was not to keen on giving it up at all, and Amell seemed far too interested in examining it. If by examining you meant taking it apart to see how it worked.    
  
"So did I," she said with a frown, eyes unfocusing as she stretched her senses. "There is something out there…"  
  
"Or in here," Hawke said, swearing as he pulled the dagger from its sheath. The primeval rune glowed hot; heat spiraling out to wrap itself around his hand. Disturbed, he tried to drop it, but his fingers wouldn’t obey.  
  
"Can’t let go of the blighted thing," he growled, suddenly afraid. He felt dizzy, as if he had risen too fast.  
  
"Stand back," Morrigan said sternly, stepping away from the rogue. “‘Tis draining him."  
  
"No kidding," Hawke said weakly as his legs gave out and dropped him on his knees in the snow. Lightheaded. The snow was soft. So soft.  
  
"Ian!" Bethany cried, pushing past a cautious Varric to kneel at her brother’s side.  
  
"Maker’s breath," the dwarf muttered, looking around. "What is that sound?"  
  
"A heartbeat," Zevran said, blades drawn as he scanned the emptiness of their surroundings. "I would know that sound anywhere."  
  
"What is happening to my brother?" Bethany hadn’t dared to reach out and touch, the blade glowed red, the shine reflecting on Hawke’s pale skin.   
  
"I can’t be certain", Amell said, kneeling down next to her. "The rune seems to be draining him, possibly in a similar manner to blood magic. Perhaps he does not have enough mana since he is not a mage, and the rune is exploiting alternative sources…"  
  
“‘Tis a filthy little thing,” Morrigan interrupted. “You should have followed my advice and destroyed it yesterday.”  
  
"Assuming that I could," Amell replied, reaching out to brush his fingers over the red aura, pulling them back as if he had been stung. "You hold my skills in too high esteem, my love."  
  
"Stop flirting you two and help my brother!" Bethany snapped as Hawke toppled over on the side, curling up in a fetal position.  
  
"I have to agree with Sunshine here, I like talking as much as anybody, but there’s a time and a place, and it’s not when Hawke is doing whatever it is he’s doing. Not dying I hope?"  
  
"Taking rash action might make things worse," Amell started, hands lighting up with blue. The blue immediately got pulled into the red, turning into a vicious purple before he tore his hands away. "This rune is draining for a reason, not just him but anything close to…"  
  
"Rash? That is my brother we are talking about, and this thing is eating him alive!"  
  
“‘Tis true, the filthy little thing tried to drain me too when I reached for it. ‘Tis hungry.”  
  
"Then let’s feed it," Bethany suggested. "Maybe it will let him go for a juicier meal."  
  
"I am not sure that is wise, we still are not sure what is happening…"  
  
"I do. My brother is dying. If its power this thing wants, I’ve got plenty. If we just…"   
  
The voices droned on, but for Hawke the world had narrowed to a point. A glowing, throbbing point of unhealthy red, pulsating to the beat of a distant heart. The beats came slow at first, then faster. He could feel his own heart struggling to keep up, distorted figures moving around him. He felt as if he had sunk to the bottom of the ocean, the pressure without too much to withstand. He was falling, fainting, and then a surge of force cradled him and reduced the strain, kept him conscious in the arms of his sister. Bethany, her heart a vital drum, her aura pale and golden as it surged into the rune. A breath later a different heartbeat joined the chorus, slower, steadier, cradled in ethereal blue. Then came the next, rabbit-quick and verdant green and he no longer felt like he was dying. Only as if the world was.  
  
Lips moved too slowly for words, reality stretched like a disused muscle, then snapped, flashing red and blue and gold and green. Blue skies were ripped aside for grey stones, and open spaces for cramped walls. A popped blister of malevolent intention exploded in his face, searing hands and spirit. The air stilled like after a flash of lightning, a beat, then two and sound came rolling in, the distant thunder of life.  
  
"Ian, Ian," Hawke heard the voice before he felt the hands, clinging. Shaking. "Are you alive?"  
  
"Maker I wish I weren’t," he managed to choke out, opening eyes he had expected to be blinded, looking down at hands he had imagined would be torn to shreds. He remembered the pain, but his flesh was whole.  
  
"Fascinating," Amell said sounding giddy from the lightshow.  
  
"Fascinating is not the word I would use," Morrigan said, snappish in her irritation.  
  
"No I’d settle for more of a ’ Maker’s breath, what in the name of the ancestors was that?’" Varric looked around with a frown. "And where are we anyway?"  
  
"We were elsewhere, now we are here, yes?" Zevran offered. "Why complicate things. Although here seem to be a cell, which is most unfortunate."  
  
"The door is open, Charming, even Hawke could escape from this one." Apparently Varric was satisfied that Hawke was out of any immediate danger, thus safe to bait once more.  
  
"Thank you, Varric," Hawke said dryly, slowly untangling himself from his sister. In the distance he could hear dogs barking, familiar barks at that. One stone at least that could fall from his chest. "The rune and my blade are both gone." He wasn’t sure if he felt relief or loss.  
  
"A shame," Zevran said with a sigh. "Such a waste of fine Antivan… steel," he finally added with a wink at Hawke.  
  
"We are not alone," Morrigan pointed out.  
  
"I don’t want to alarm you, but it looks like mama bear is right," Varric said from his vantage point at the door. "There are bodies in the corridor. Grey Warden bodies from the look."  
  
"If you call me that again, dwarf, I will gladly show you exactly how it feels to be mauled by one."  
  
"Fine, I will come up with another one," the dwarf muttered to himself.  
  
"Maker, not the Wardens again," Hawke mumbled, looking out into the corridor. Morrigan was right; there were two bodies in Warden uniforms crumbled against the far wall. The shock of blonde hair on one of them made his blood run cold.  
  
"Anders?" Hawke asked, then louder, more worried "Anders!"   
  
Crawling there on his hands and knees made the short distance feel like miles, but Hawke didn’t trust his legs to rise just yet. His hands shook as he rolled the man over on his back, and as he had hoped and feared, Anders expressive face greeting him. Unconscious but breathing. Thank the maker for that, but the trickle of blood from his nose and ears didn’t look too good.  
  
"Bethany?" He hated how shrill his voice sounded, but he was really worried.  
  
"I’m drained brother," but she was kneeling next to him, as worried about Anders as he was. "But he usually carries Lyrium, see if you can find any."  
  
Hawke patted down the unfamiliar uniform, Maker, Anders was as limp and pale as he had ever seen him. Even worse than after that fight with the dragon that had drained his last reserves in an attempt to keep them all alive. Finally he found one of the mage’s Lyrium potions, uncorking the slender bottle before handing it to Bethany. She downed it in a decisive gulp, as if she had been slamming body shots at the Hanged Man in funnier, more innocent days. Still, she took a deep breath as color returned to her cheeks, drawing on her magic. Her cupped hands pooled greenish light over Anders’ head, and Hawke kept himself quiet and let her do her job. He shouldn’t interrupt.  
  
He managed to stay silent for all of a few nervous breaths before asking “How is he?” in what was a voice more worried than he would have liked.  
  
"Not that badly injured," she said, eyes closed, voice distant. "A light concussion I am repairing as we speak, bruises from the wall and he’s utterly drained. Like us. He should be waking up if we can get some Lyrium into him without making him choke on it."  
  
“‘Tis the same with this one,” Morrigan said, hunched over the other crumpled form.  
  
"Nathaniel!" came the amused observation as Amell walked over next to her. "So this is indeed Vigil’s Keep, I thought I recognized the dungeons."  
  
"Vigil’s Keep?" Varric asked, looking around as he tried to locate where the distant barking was coming from. "Do you mean to tell me that we’ve been pulled across the Waking Sea? Now that’s a story even I would have a hard time making people believe."  
  
"Did you not once tell that Hawke flew to Kirkwall on the back of a dragon?" Zevran asked.  
  
"Why, yes but that, my friend, is plausible. People can picture it, they know dragons and how they fly, and…"  
  
Hawke didn’t listen to the discussion that erupted behind him; instead he gently dripped Lyrium into Anders mouth, cradling the mage’s head to keep him from choking. His efforts were rewarded by a sputtering cough, and a pair of whiskey-colored eyes fluttering open.  
  
"Hello there sleepyhead," Hawke said softly to the mage in his lap.  
  
"Hello there yourself," Anders replied, still looking a little lost.  
  
"You have no idea how good it is to see you again."  
  
"I think I do," the mage said with a faint smile. "Let’s never go our separate ways from now on? Things get even more out of control than usual."  
  
"And to think you used to blame me for that," Hawke teased. "I hope you’ve learned your lesson and are ready to see me as the responsible paragon of manliness that I am."  
  
"I am," Anders replied with a straight face. "Also, Andraste’s ass, I’ve missed you."  
  
"Note how I did not make a crack about the fact that you have been missing a holy woman’s ass."  
  
"Responsible?" Anders asked in his best Sandal voice.  
  
"You bet," Hawke replied. "Actually I…"  
  
"Don’t move you dirty nugs, step away from the Commander and Sparklefingers!" The voice was loud enough to startle them all, and the hallway filled with silver and blue as hard-faced Wardens, weapons at the ready, came streaming in. First amongst them was a bearded dwarf with an axe as long as he was tall, and a look in his eyes that would have made a mabari think twice about biting. The look was enough that it even kept Hawke from pointing out that they couldn’t step back without moving.  
  
"It’s been a long time Oghren," Amell replied, cheerfully unfazed by the berserker.   
  
"Warden Commander?" the dwarf asked, looking at Amell, beard bristling. "You blighted, nug-humping long-shanked excuse for a mage, where the blast have you been?"  
  
"As foul-mouthed as ever I see," Amell replied with even humor. "In temper and in breath both."  
  
"And the witch," the dwarf growled at Morrigan. "Figures. Joined at the hip again. Or at the crotch, hehehehe" the chuckle was coarse, but infectious, and Hawke found himself smiling.  
  
"Jamail?" Nathaniel had stirred at last, looking up at Amell as if he had seen a ghost. "What is going on here?"  
  
"You tell me," Hawke finally said, running a hand over Ander’s brow. "I have no idea."  
  
"In my experience," Varric added, "a good story is rarely told at sword point in a dank cellar. What do you fine gentlemen say to taking this upstairs?  
  
"The topsider has a point," Sigrun said, the diminutive dwarf sheathing her short blades. "Looks like this might take a while. Oh, and where did you hide the giant walking scary statue?"  
  
The empty cell stared back at them, no trace of the previous inhabitant. Meredith was gone.  
  
"Maker’s blistered balls!" Anders said, quite empathically.  
  
That, Hawke found out, was the beginning of a very long and tangled tale.  
  
…  
  
Some time later, introductions had been made, grievances aired, hugs exchanged and stories told. The Warden Commander’s office was small but warm, thanks to the blazing fireplace. Most important of all, it was private enough for their purposes, because certain things should not be shared. Hawke had taken a seat on the floor, his mabari leaning against him, and Anders wrapped securely in his lap. There had been too many times lately where he had been sure he would never get to see the mage again, and right now he needed contact. Silent assurance. And Nathaniel’s gaze was anything but assuring. He was not sure what it was about the other man that set him off. Maybe something in the way he looked at Anders that made him pull the mage just that little bit closer to his chest. Closer. Comfort.  
  
Varric was finishing up their tale by now, giving Hawke ample time to study the others. The Warden, Amell, Jamail, whatever he wanted to be called, was listening with rapt attention, obviously as fascinated as the dwarf berserker was bored. Said dwarf had turned out to be named Oghren, and Hawke didn’t think the resemblance to ogre was coincidental. The warrior had a lazy, drunken, look about him, but Hawke had not forgotten that he had been more than willing to charge them all earlier. The buffoon had none of Fenris’ liquid grace, but seemed no less deadly. The other dwarf present, a sleek woman named Sigrun, kept watching Varric and didn’t bother hiding her appreciation over the view. Bethany was fussing over Feathers, and Zevran was fussing over Bethany now that Anders was securely seated in Hawke’s lap. And the witch, Morrigan, simply listened with her usual look of bored disdain. Nothing new there.  
  
"So I have to ask you, Anders," Hawke said once their side of the story had been told. "Did it ever strike you as a bad idea to try to heal your worst enemy?" He would have slapped the mage upside the head, had he not been so comfortably wedged between dog, wall and man.  
  
"It made sense at the time," Anders said with an embarrassed sigh Hawke felt more than heard.  
  
"Blondie, Blondie, and here Hawke had assured me that you had come to your senses again."  
  
"I’m sorry to disappoint you, Varric, but… I can’t explain it. There was this sense of… hurt. Of something lacking. Missing. I thought that if I could heal it… heal her I mean, then we would be better off. It would be far easier to deal with a Templar with a sword, than a haunted, moving statue."  
  
"True, but…" Hawke found himself protesting.  
  
"You said heal IT," Amell pointed out.  
  
"I meant her," Anders defended himself.  
  
"Did you really, Blondie?" Varric asked. "Remember Bartrand’s house and the whispers there? You didn’t hear them that time, Blondie, I did. That shard wanted me to take it, keep it, Maker only knows what I would have done if Hawke hadn’t convinced me to give it up."  
  
"Are you saying that the relic might have talked me into… fixing it?" Anders said with growing horror.  
  
"You were unusually determined," Nathaniel adds with a frown. "But I never imagined it could influence you like that."  
  
"Don’t trust the blighted thing," Hawke said with a sigh. "I vowed to have the shard destroyed, and then I ended up giving it to Sandal, who instead of destroying it made it into one of the most frighteningly powerful runes I’ve ever seen. And I put it in a blade and spent a year keeping it safe.  
  
"That is true; your blade rarely left your side. I thought it was some… rogue thing," Anders said with a grimace. "I mean the way you and Isabela went on about your daggers…"  
  
"Now, now, there is no need to insult a fine blade," Zevran interjected.   
  
"Anyway," Hawke interrupted with raised voice because this was devolving into banter, and he wanted this over with so he could drag Anders off to a room and do unmentionable things to him until they both collapsed from exhaustion. "Is anybody going to explain why the Gray Wardens are so interested in this damn relic at all? First I catch the Warden Commander here snooping around the deserted thaig, and that was even before Meredith went nuts. Then you lot steal her corpse for Maker knows what purposes, dragging Anders of to…"  
  
"That is Gray Warden business," Nathaniel interrupted, voice hardening to steel.  
  
"And in case you have missed it," Hawke pointed out, "I am sleeping with one. If you tell him, he’s just going to tell me anyway."  
  
"That is true, Nate," Anders said with a look of resigned innocence on his face. "Hawke can be very persuasive. Very."  
  
"Maker," Nathaniel groaned. "Will you ever grow up Anders?"  
  
"Not if I can help it," the mage lied.  
  
"Regardless," Amell said, raising his voice a little. "We are all here by design. All of us are tired from this thing, let us not spend time bickering when what we truly need to do is to find out what this thing was, and where it has disappeared to."  
  
"You are not the Warden Commander anymore," Nathaniel said coldly, looking at Amell.  
  
"I am not," Amell admitted in return. "You are."  
  
"Is that going to be a problem?" came the reply.  
  
"Not if you make the right decisions," the armored mage said, with more steel than usual in his soft voice. "This is more important than you know. More important than the two of us and whatever past we have behind us.  
  
"Fine," Nathaniel said, pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose in annoyance. "They will be invited to the meeting tomorrow. And we two are having a talk later tonight Jamail, whether you like it or not."  
  
That was one meeting that Hawke was glad he would be missing.

 


	18. Chapter 18

Later, behind closed doors, Hawke hugged Anders until the mage uttered a small, half-choked “ehrm’ and freed himself.  
  
"I take it you missed me, love?" The smile was hesitant, as if he wasn’t quite sure how to interpret Hawke’s sudden need for contact.  
  
"Maker, yes," the rogue said, running a hand over the mage’s chest, tracing the patterns of the Warden uniform. "It is odd seeing you in this."  
  
"I haven’t decided to go back, if that is what you are worried about," Anders teased, but grew serious once he saw the relief in Hawke’s eyes. "Andraste’s dimpled bum, that is what you are worried about! Oh love, I’d rather sashay around naked than in this, but it’s cold and my balls would shrivel up like tiny nuts. And Oghren would never let me live that down, I’d be known as acorn-nuts forever and sparklefingers just have so much more panache. My robes were just dirty after the trip; I’ll be back in my feathers before you know it."  
  
"Good," Hawke said, pretending that he hadn’t had a lump in his throat since he saw the man in the blue and silver. "I like feathers."  
  
"I like birds," Anders said with a wiggle of his eyebrows.  
  
"Is that why you keep calling me Hawke instead of Ian?" He had pulled the mage close again, starting to divest him of the pieces of his uniform now that they were finally alone.  
  
"Partly," Anders said, letting Hawke undress him. "Mostly it is that I knew you as Hawke long before I even knew you had a first name. And it’s got a romantic quality to it. Hawke is the name of a champion and hero for the ages, Ian is… just a man."  
  
"I don’t mind being just a man with you," Hawke said, kissing the mage’s naked chest, running fingers over it in search of new scars. He found none, just old memories of past pains.  
  
"You’ll never be just a man," Anders teased, shimmying out of his smallclothes. Goosebumps amassed, precursors of an army of shivers, but he stepped close into Hawke’s embrace. Naked and fully clothed. He rather liked that. "You were quick enough to get me out of uniform."  
  
"Thing still gives me the shivers," Hawke complained, which spurred a soft laugh in return. "Don’t laugh at me you ass, it was a legitimate concern! I left you at the island running a revolution, only to return and find you neck deep in Wardens, plots and taint."  
  
"Not voluntarily," Anders said, trying not to laugh. "The blighters blackmailed me into coming back and helping them solve the Meridith riddle." He pushed Hawke down on the bed, and when the rogue sat, he slid to his knees in front of him, pulling off his boots. "Still, I got a few things in return, hopefully helping some fugitives to safety. That is worth a few sacrifices."  
  
"You trust him then? Nathaniel?"  
  
Anders fell silent as he ran his fingers over Hawke’s ankles, frowning at the new scars that the lack of socks had revealed. “He is an honorable man, and he takes his position as Warden Commander seriously. As long as this does not interfere with his duties to the Wardens, I think I can. And what have you been up to love?”  
  
"Things… didn’t go quite as easily as Varric let on."   
  
"When do they ever? Is there something I should know?" Anders trailed his hands up Hawke’s clothed legs, a faint frown on his face.  
  
"Sebastian…" Hawke started, pulling at his shirt.   
  
"Let me, love. I’ve missed undressing you." Anders crawled up on the bed, soft healer’s hands tugging at the rogue’s clothes. "Now, Sebastian, what? That name is never a good sign."  
  
"It really isn’t," Hawke said with a sigh. "I got stupid and got caught when breaking Bethany out. At least she and Zevran made it to safety; I ended up in Sebastian’s dungeons. And let me tell you one thing, the man can hold a grudge."   
  
There was a faint gasp as the shirt was pulled over Hawke’s head, Anders taking in the scars that trekked across the rogue’s back. “Andraste’s ashes… what did he do to you?” The kiss to Hawke’s shoulder blade was soft and hesitant, as if the mostly healed scars would still hurt. The ridges of scarred and swollen flesh were faintly pink and white, and he followed some of them with careful fingers.  
  
"Oh nothing really," came the sharp reply, shoulders tensing a little as Anders touched them. "Just dragged me into the Starkhaven city square, whipped me and nearly cut my hand off. Varric got me out at the last moment. He thought you were there with me; this little show was designed to pull you out of hiding. Funny really, maybe I’ve been joking around so long nobody quite believes it when I actually speak the truth for once." Hawke aimed one of his best smirks at the wall in front of him, because really, he’d left those events far enough behind that even degradation and almost death could be joked about.  
  
"You do joke in the worst of circumstances," Anders said with an air of disapproval, the air shimmering in blue. "Don’t move love, I can’t remove the scars but… there is still underlying damage. I can feel it. Would you flex your shoulders for me?"  
  
"I’ll admit I’m a bit sore," Hawke said, doing as Anders instructed. "Bethany is a decent healer, but she focused far more on breaking things than fixing them after joining the circle. Probably a bit therapeutic considering the circumstances of her ‘recruitment’."  
  
"It probably runs in the family," Anders said, palms running over Hawke’s back, the whole room throbbing with spirit-blue light, teasing his lover’s form back together. "Hawkes and breaking things."  
  
"Probably," Hawke admitted, thinking back to Carver. "I can understand if you’ll want to fuck me on my back from now on," he teased, trying to lighten the mood before it descended to misery and regrets.  
  
"Now that would imply that your face is the better of your assets," Anders retorted once the glow had faded. "We all know which of us is the pretty one here," he said with an eyebrow-waggle. But the humor didn’t stick, and the worried frown returned. "I still can’t believe he would do that to you. You were friends!  I never understood why, but… you were."  
  
"Well, he was going to cut off my hand and not my head; he might have imagined that as being merciful. But I think I burned all bridges with him when I didn’t kill you in Kirkwall. I might have been his friend, but Elthina was like a mother to him. I can’t really blame him for torturing me."  
  
"I can," Anders said harshly. "I can and I will."  
  
"I’m safe now," Hawke said, turning towards Anders so he could pull him into his lap. "Scars I can live with. My hand is fine. And I can trust Varric to edit out any mentions of me screaming and crying like a little girl when he tells the tale of my heroic escape."  
  
"This is not a joke love."  
  
"Why not?" Hawke asked with a sigh. "It’s over with. Don’t dwell on it. Might as well be a joke as long as the punchline is me kissing you." He kissed the naked mage to drive home the point; Anders hesitated at first, but then returned it in kind.  
  
"It would kill me to lose you." The words were a quiet admission, an echo of darker years in Kirkwall. Those shadows had never really left them, just been banished to bad nights and haunted memories.  
  
"It would take killing me for that to happen," Hawke pointed out. "And killing me is hard. A lot of people have tried."  
  
"It only takes one to succeed."  
  
"You’re a cheery one tonight."  
  
"Surrounded by Wardens, plots and taint, remember?"  
  
"And not enough love or kittens. Well, the first I can fix if you get my pants off."  
  
"That would mean I had to get out of your lap."  
  
"Sadly true." Hawke slapped Anders’ ass a little. "But any worthy cause demands sacrifices, right?"  
  
"I should give you a harder time about this," the mage pointed out as he pulled away from Hawke. "You are not immortal, and I should never have agreed to let you go alone."  
  
"I’m alive, with Bethany and Merrill free and Sebastian made a fool of, and another legendary escape under my belt." Hawke peeled off said belt, then his pants, tossing them at the mage with a flourish. "I might not be immortal, but I am lucky. And has friends. That goes a long way."  
  
Anders caught the pants, looking as if he was about to protest before he gave in. “You are lucky. As am I.” He dropped the shedded garment on the floor, crawling back in bed with the rogue. “I can’t say that I expected you to be with me here at Vigil’s Keep, but I am glad that you are.”  
  
"So a vengeful Meredith on the loose is worth it as long as you get to slide under the covers with me at the end of the day? Hmm, and to think that Varric accused me of having an inflate sense of self-esteem." Hawke pulled the blankets over them both, pulling Anders close. He knew he should do some truly dirty things to the mage to pay him back in kind, and maybe he still would later. But right now he just wanted somebody to hold.   
  
"Are you alright?" Anders asked, picking up on his actions, not his joking words. He rested his head on Hawke’s shoulder, where he could whisper his words into the rogue’s chest. A little bit of privacy, the kind you could only have naked in bed, their faces hidden from each other.   
  
"Why shouldn’t I be?" came the expected reply.  
  
"You know why," Anders said with a nip to the rogue’s throat, but the kittenish action spurred no reply, and the mage knew that he had been right to ask.  
  
"I could ask you the same thing," Hawke pointed out. "You ran away from this place once after all. And now you’re back in uniform."  
  
"If you want to know how I feel, all you have to do is ask."   
  
"It’s not that easy. Maybe later. Let’s just get some sleep for now." Hawke’s shoulders stiffened a little, head turning away.  
  
"No, Hawke," Anders said sternly. "Tomorrow we’ll be caught up in trouble again and Maker knows when we’ll have another moment just the two of us. And I don’t want to do this, worrying through the night, wondering what it will be that finally makes you snap. You can’t keep this up forever, love, hiding behind a joke and a smile."  
  
"It’s worked so far."  
  
"I know, and Andraste knows I’ve been grateful for your humor more than once. But you don’t have to hide from me.  
  
"It’s not hiding, exactly." Hawke sounded tired, each word a small retreat from a battle line he’s held for far too long.  
  
"What is it then?"  
  
"It just never seemed like a good time, you didn’t need to have me to worry about as well, what with all the…"  
  
"Hawke," Anders interrupted as he shifted, rolling on top of the rogue, so he could look sternly at him. Nose to nose, elegant and aquiline rubbing against hooked and broken. "Don’t you dare use me as an excuse for keeping your silence. I am not weak. You don’t need to protect me, and…" his eyebrows shot up in a reproachful frown "…while you might have a hard time imagining it, I never had any illusions about you being more than human. Admitting to hurting now and again won’t break either me or you. You’ve been there for me so many times; do you trust me so little you won’t let me do the same for you?"  
  
"That’s not fair."  
  
"It’s true though."  
  
"I just…" Hawke started, but he already knew this was a lost cause. Might as well bare his throat and plead for mercy. Not that he would get it, Anders had that look in his eyes again. "Ask then," he finally sighed.  
  
"Tell me what happened in Tevinter."  
  
"You’re as cutthroat as Zevran," he complained, "Goes straight for the jugular."  
  
"And you’re still evading."  
  
"I am. Why not let me get away with it? Please?" But the mage seemed to be able to resist even the worst case of puppy dog eyes, and left him with no recourse but the unpleasant truth. "What do you think happened?" he started, but that came across as too much of an accusation. This wasn’t Anders’ fault. "I’m sorry. That’s not fair. I… did some things I’d rather forget in order to get out of the dungeons. Being tortured leaves you with few dignities, and those blighted magisters were good at their job. What they didn’t take I bartered myself, trading dignity for a moment of inattention so I could get hold of something to pick the locks. I’d at least give that to Sebastian, he didn’t stoop to rape and torture to get his point across."  
  
"I’ll keep that in mind when I set his arse on fire." Anders took a deep breath, forcing his frown to dissipate. "But that’s not important. I thought it might have been something like that. You were… rough afterwards."  
  
"I’m sorry; I never meant to hurt you."  
  
"I didn’t say I minded. Sometimes rough is needed. I know that."  
  
"You’ve… been through something similar?" The question was cautious, but this was a night for unpleasant truths it seemed.  
  
"Similar," Anders said with a curious lack of passion. "A long time ago. Things happen when you goad the wrong Templar."  
  
"I can understand why you hate them."  
  
"Oh don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate them for abusing me. There were bastards amongst them, but there were good men too. Of a sort," he admitted with a dubious waggle of his brows. "I hate them because of what they represent. Because even the good ones still enforce a system that keeps us imprisoned and condemned just for being born with magic."  
  
"Is that why you were so quick to jump at the suggestion to kill Thrask even though he wanted to help the escaped mages?"  
  
"He was a soldier. This is a war."  
  
"And now he’s a casualty."  
  
"He won’t be the only one before this is over. And he did go along with the plan to kidnap your sister later."  
  
"Are we arguing about this again?" Hawke had to ask, because he didn’t want to go back to the heated words and shouted accusations that had peppered their last year in Kirkwall.  
  
"We shouldn’t, it’s long since over and done with" Anders said, his mouth quirking in a sour little smile." I’m sorry. It’s just that… let’s just say things been tense lately." That was the understatement of the day.  
  
"I just admitted to sucking magister cock," Hawke said with the all too serious look he got when making his best jokes. "The least you could do is open up a little and tell me what’s bothering you."  
  
"And now I know you’ll be alright once you’ve started joking about it." Anders had to admit it was a bit of a relief.   
  
"I will be alright because I survived. I’m here. With you. That’s all that’s important. It takes a lot more to break me."  
  
"Why does that sound like you’re bragging?"  
  
"Just stating facts," Hawke said with a humble look on his face. "Now it’s your turn to ‘fess up your darkest fears."  
  
"That would be being back here," Anders started, letting his head sink down on the rogue’s chest. "I won’t lie, Hawke, it’s hard. People should hate me for what I did, and I suspect some do because Nathaniel told me not to go down any dark corridors alone in the middle of the night, but the people that matter, my friends… they just… forgave me."  
  
"You sound like you think you don’t deserve forgiveness."  
  
"Maybe I don’t. I lied to them, killed a few of their brethren, and walked out on them when they needed me." The best laid plans. He should have learned to stop making them a long time ago.  
  
"Tough luck then, because that’s not your call, that’s theirs. And may I remind you that you did pretty much the same to me, and look at you here, still in my bed." Hawke gave the mage a grope for good measure.  
  
"That amazes me more than words can tell."  
  
"Come to think of it," Hawke started, defusing a moment that might risk becoming far too touching. "I really hope that them forgiving you doesn’t mean you’ve slept with them as well. Especially Oghren, because Maker, picturing that…"  
  
"Andraste’s’ knickerweasels," Anders protested with a laugh. "No, the closest I ever got to that was challenging him to a drinking contest and throwing up in his beard. Don’t ask." He grimaced a little, admitting "I did sleep with Nathaniel though."  
  
"I imagined you might have," Hawke said, looking oh so very solemn. "He has that look when he’s around you. The ‘I could still be tapping that’ look."  
  
"Hawke… it might come as a surprise to you, but I have slept with an awful lot of people." Anders had slid up on an elbow again, leaning in to kiss the rogue lightly. "But I’ve only fallen in love twice."  
  
"Funny, and yet you remained celibate for years in Kirkwall, that is unless Varric’s spies were sorely mistaken."  
  
"They were not," Anders said softly, wondering how long Varric had been keeping an eye on him and for what purpose. "That part of my life was over when I joined with Justice."  
  
"So Anders comes in two flavors then?" Hawke teased. "Slutty warden and chaste healer."  
  
"Three actually, and the third is my favorite one."  
  
"What’s that?"  
  
"Monogamous revolutionary."  
  
"Maker," Hawke said with a laugh. "That is the worst name for a flavor ever, not even Varric could make that one sing. You need a snappier name; nothing ever sounds good with that many syllables. And monogamous sounds like a disease."  
  
"How about ‘madly in love with you’ then?"  
  
"That would do it."  
  
"We’re hopeless, aren’t we?" Anders said with a mock sigh. "When it comes to trying to be serious."  
  
"Oh I don’t know," Hawke said, pursing his lips. "We managed it just fine for a little there. And then… well, I don’t know what happened, but I am smiling and so are you so it can’t be that bad."  
  
"It’s not," Anders agreed softly.  
  
"And you’re alright with being here?"  
  
"I’d lie if I said I liked it." Anders looked as if he had bitten into something sour. "Oh don’t get me wrong, it is great to see my friends again, but… it’s not where I belong. I might share the taint, the nightmares and that particular promise of a nasty, early death, but I have a different war to fight."  
  
"I know that face," Hawke said, raising one eyebrow in an imitation of the mage. "Let me read your mind. ‘Oh, I so regret pulling Hawke into this, he’s not a mage, and he should settle down and have a family and a happy life and not be tied down to someone that will most likely get himself killed before the taint even manages to touch him.’"  
  
"You’re not a bad mindreader." Anders looked half amused, half annoyed. "Your impression is rubbish though."  
  
"Not as rubbish as the reasoning. There is nowhere else I’d rather be than at your side."  
  
"And then things we used to talk about in Kirkwall? Family? A deserted little island somewhere?"  
  
"I’d grow as bored living on an island as I did living as a noble in Kirkwall. And unless you’re secretly a woman, there won’t be any tiny Hawkes running around in my future. That’s Bethany’s job, and if we win this blighted war she might even have a future where she can have a family of her own."  
  
"Well, about that," Anders started, almost nervously. "I can’t be sure, but… I think she’s pregnant."  
  
"What? No, wait, let me rephrase that, Maker what!?"   
  
"I felt it when she healed me," Anders confessed. "Another life. I think it’s still early, but… yes, she’s with child."  
  
"Maker’s breath, she never said a thing to me." You’d think he would be the first to know, being family and all that. And it wasn’t like a child was a boyfriend he could disapprove of and scare off. A child was… Maker, a child was always welcome. Even when it came like a thief in the night.  
  
"She is probably not going to tell anybody before she starts to show, do you have any idea who the father is?"  
  
"It must have been when she was incarcerated," Hawke speculated. "Maybe a guard or… oh Maker, please don’t let it be Zevran."  
  
"I hate to point it out, but he probably knows how to protect himself against things like that unless he’s seeding bastards across half of Thedas." Not that Anders would put it past the assassin.  
  
"But still… what if she was raped?" Why hadn’t she just told him? Something had to be wrong.  
  
"Calm down, love." Anders kissed Hawke softly. "Has she sounded like something like that happened to her?"  
  
"No," the rogue admitted. "She said that Sebastian was a perfect gentleman as a jailor. I don’t think she would have lied to me about that. And if something happened, she would want revenge."  
  
"Another trait of the Hawkes I’ve come to realize." Anders rolled his eyes, thinking back to Tevinter.  
  
"Don’t you roll your eyes at me; I’m going to be an uncle."  
  
"Take my word for it, let her tell you herself. In her own time. I know that look on your face far too well. You would go overboard and end up getting slapped, or worse." And with a powerful Force Mage, worse could be painful.  
  
"It’s just that… mother would be so happy." The brief pain was there, as always. A dead mother was a wound that never healed.  
  
"She would. And I would like to think that somewhere, she is." Anders aimed for comfort, and judging by the fact that the frown on Hawke’s face faded, he succeeded pretty well. He followed with a soft kiss, feeling the rogue’s hesitation melt after the first seconds.  
  
Some ghosts could never be chased off completely, just placated for the moment.


	19. Chapter 19

Hawke had learned to hate the Warden Commander’s office by now, which was probably not fair to the perfectly serviceable room, but there you had it. He wanted to be as far away from the Wardens and their blighted games as he could, and especially he wanted Anders as far from their grasp as he could. He didn’t want to he shut inside with what they considered to be their brightest minds, a fifth wheel on a wobbly cart headed for the edge of the abyss. Duties. Blighted duties. He had enough of that when he had been the Champion, and back then they still had that sort of novel shine to them that came complete with respect and adoration. Not like now. He wasn’t a mage, he wasn’t a scholar, he was a just jumped-up rogue with the wrong friends. He had never felt so keenly that he didn’t belong here. Oh well, at least Varric was in the same boat, though he suspected the dwarf somehow managed to fit in everywhere. Never out of place. Not even around a table filled with Wardens and mages.  
  
"I still don’t know what this is supposed to accomplish," Hawke said, unable to keep the undertone of boredom from his voice. "We’ve already told our story; it’s all there on paper." He gestured towards the pile of parchments in front of the somber looking dwarf woman seated across from him. She was the only one in the room he didn’t know, she had been introduced as Dagna, a researcher of arcane theory despite being cut off from the fade due to her heritage.  
  
"Stories are interesting," the dwarf said with a small, quick smile as she rifled through the parchments. "But I am interested in facts. Solutions. If I may Commander?"  
  
"By all means," Nathaniel said tensely. "That is why we approached you." The Warden Commander had his seat at the top of the table, and Hawke was glad that he was slouched between him and Anders. Just in case.  
  
"And I am so very grateful for that. After the collapse of the circles my research has been woefully stymied." She gave Anders a reproachful look.  
  
"I am not going to apologies for ending the abuses of the Circle," Anders stated flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. By now he was back in his own clean robes, looking a lot more self-assured.  
  
"Neither do I expect you to," she quickly added. "But would you please consider answering some questions where you are uniquely suited to provide some illumination?"  
  
"Andraste’s puckered lips, and here I thought Varric was bad with the prying." The healer sighed and fussed a bit with his feathers as if thinking about it. "Oh fine," he said at last. "Ask away."  
  
"Splendid," Dagna said, reaching for a pile of blank parchments.  
  
Hawke stifled a yawn, looking around the rest of the table. Amell looked interested, well as interested as the stone-faced man ever looked. Funny really, they were second cousins, and similar enough in looks in some ways if you discounted the Rivani hue to the former Commander. But where Hawke was all smiles and frowns and mocking glances, Amell was as serious and severe as a blade. Maybe that was what happened to you in the circle, Hawke thought to himself. Having to hide what you felt, what you knew. Maybe that was why Anders had ended up in so much trouble, that he had never quite mastered that bit. Even Bethany had grown up hard. Though not as hard as Morrigan, who was the only one at the table looking as openly displeased as himself. He sketched her a small salute, and got the reward of having her eyebrows shoot up in an amused look. She might be a bitch, but he liked her. And Bethany… Maker. Was Anders really right? She didn’t look pregnant where she sat. Should he ask? Could he ask?  
  
"Now," Dagna started, saving Hawke from his thoughts. "I’ve come to understand that the spirit you used to co-habit with had a unique sense for the properties of Lyrium. I believe it sang to him? And you both were down in the Primeval Thaig, and exposed to the Idol. I know it might be painful recalling now that he has departed you, but I am curious what he felt down there."  
  
"Oh Maker, that is why you wanted me? Because of Justice?" Anders brows shot up in a silent laugh. "First of all, co-habiting? You can call me for what I was, an abomination. I won’t mind."  
  
"That’s not what I remember, Blondie." Varric had shaved off his beard by now, and once more looked the part of the roguish storyteller. From the way he kept stroking his chin, Hawke wasn’t sure if he missed the beard or was glad that it was gone.  
  
"Shut up Varric. And you are so very sorely mistaken about how Justice works." Anders almost sounded apologetic, as if he had maybe wished things were differently.  
  
"What do you mean?" Amell asked, leaning forward so he could rest his elbows on the table. "I clearly remember discussing that with Justice, the way that Lyrium sang to him. That is why I gave him that ring, which was pure Lyrium."  
  
"A ring that was still found on Kristoff’s corpse, right?"  
  
"We assumed that you had been too much of a hurry after…" Nathaniel gestured vaguely.  
  
"After defending myself against the Templars you mean?" Anders voice was sharp enough that Hawke put a hand on his thigh under the table, squeezing it lightly. Just to show that he wasn’t on trial here, or at least that if he was, he wasn’t alone.  
  
"Not Templars. Wardens," Nathaniel pointed out, face darkening.  
  
"Templars," Anders insisted. "They only joined to keep an eye on me. Well, me and him," he nodded at Amell. "Uppity mages are dangerous you know, can’t have prospective maleficars walking around unsupervised."  
  
"They took the oath, same as you."   
  
"And look where I ended up." Anders faced Nathaniel’s stare with a steady glare of his own. "Oaths are no more than words unless you mean them."  
  
"Sers," Dagna interrupted, holding up her square little hands. "Please be civil, that is not the issue we are here to solve. What did you try to tell us before Ser Anders? That we had misunderstood the nature of this?"  
  
"Justice… is Justice," Anders begun explaining, looking away from Nathaniel. "One spirit. One purpose. Nothing more. Jamail, you remember Justice from when he inhabited Kristoff’s corpse. Back then the only thing he truly felt apart from the need to bring Justice to the world was a deep longing for Kristoff’s wife, Aurora, and an attraction to Lyrium. The last two were because of Kristoff. Not because of Justice. You have to remember, the man was dead, but he had spent years suffering quietly because he was parted from his wife by his duty, and like any Templar he was addicted to Lyrium. For a spirit unused to having a physical form, wouldn’t you think that having the Lyrium sing to him was a rather poetic description of addiction?"  
  
"Residual emotional residue in a corpse, fascinating." Dagna didn’t look disappointed; rather this new prospect seemed to invigorate her. Not so the Warden Commander.  
  
"So you really felt nothing down there?" Nathaniel asked.  
  
"Oh I felt plenty." Anders rolled his eyes a little. "Darkspawn, angst, chafed feet and a lot of hunger towards the end, because it wasn’t like we packed a lunch and was prepared to be trapped in the deep. But I felt nothing from the Lyrium or the relic, it just a different sheen to it that we all saw. More reddish."  
  
"That’s what you meant," Hawke said softly, caring more about Anders than the Idol. "That’s what you meant when you said that you had corrupted Justice back in Kirkwall. That he now felt what you did."  
  
"Not everything." The healer looked a bit embarrassed to suddenly be talking about these things around the others. "Only the strongest, most primal emotions. Spirits only have one purpose, they can’t really grasp that we humans might have several. I was a bit surprised at the start, that he would latch on to my wish for freedom from the Circle I had expected, but I had always thought it would come with a side order of yearning for soft beds and delicious food. Not selflessly healing the poor while living in a hovel. Turns out Wynne was right about me all along, I was a healer at heart. But don’t tell her, she’d only let it go to her head."  
  
“‘Tis true, she would,” Morrigan said with a scoff. “She was insufferably smug when she was right.”  
  
"And then things changed. Kirkwall changed you." Hawke could have been kicking himself, why had he never asked about these things back then? If he had he might have seen it coming, change what was inevitable. He had just wanted to pretend the spirit never existed, sleeping with an abomination raised far too many questions.  
  
"Yes. Changed me. Karl. Ser Alric. A thousand smallish cuts until it were all too much. And so he changed. Vengeance. Maker forgive me, but that’s what I wanted at the time. Vengeance against them all. For what they had done." Anders looked down at his hands. They were not covered in blood. Maybe they should have been.  
  
"I have to wonder," Amell interrupted, taking pity on Anders. "Why did Bartrand heard the relic’s call and nobody else?"  
  
"I always thought that it was because my brother was a slimy maggot of a man and like seeks like." Varric spoke loudly enough to command attention away from the healer, giving Hawke a look that the rogue returned with a nod as he wrapped his arms around his lover.  
  
Anders was shaking. Not exactly crying, but Hawke knew he was close to cracking. Thanks the Maker for Varric, and thanks the Maker for the fact that the others seemed to understand that this was a subject they should leave for now and let the mage collect himself.  
  
"Bartrand must have been just a carrier," Amell continued, speculating. "You told us that he did sell it at the first opportunity."  
  
"That’s true," Varric admitted. "Even if he kept a shard and regretted the sale ever after."  
  
"Could it have been the relic’s doing? Forcing him to sell it? Or do you think that was his greed talking?" Amell was tapping his long fingers on the table as he pondered.  
  
"Hard to say, Bartrand always was a greedy bastard, sorry mother, who wanted to both keep the cake and eat it."  
  
"I believe I have a theory about that," Dagna interrupted. "If we assume that the relic has at least rudimentary sentience and works in ways similar to normal Lyrium, then it would need a suitable host to work through. Preferably a Templar or a Mage that were sensitive to its effects, but the only mage down there already had a passenger."  
  
"Justice," Anders said quietly, his voice less shaky. "Are you telling me that he protected me from doing what Bartrand did?"  
  
"Most likely," Dagna said with surety. "A dwarf might not be a suitable host, but he would be immune to the worst effects of the Lyrium long enough to be guaranteed to bring it to the surface. A much better choice than a normal human."  
  
"Maker’s breath." Varric ran a hand over his clean-shaven chin. "Are you telling me that could have been me?"  
  
"The shard went for you when Bartrand had grown insane," Hawke pointed out, letting go of Anders.  
  
"And once it had been brought into the world, it influenced Bartrand to sell it to the first suitable buyer, which happened to be a Templar." Varric was not looking like he enjoyed adding these things together. Didn’t enjoy it at all.  
  
"Because all the mages in Kirkwall were either locked up in the Circle, penniless apostates in hiding, or possibly crazy possessed blood mages with far less pleasant passengers than Anders." Hawke wiggled his fingers in a spooky manner.  
  
"It all makes sense now," Varric said with a sigh. "Poor Bartrand, he always did have the worst of luck."  
  
"But what is it?" Nathaniel asked the question that was on all their minds.  
  
"I can only theorize," Dagna begun. "Perhaps an old demon or a fade spirit trapped in the Lyrium."  
  
"I wonder…"   
  
"What do you mean Varric?" Hawke knew that look on the dwarf’s face. It usually meant he had foreseen trouble the others had yet to spot.  
  
"Do you remember the demons, Hawke? The ones that temped that boy, Feynriel?"  
  
"I’m not likely to forget that any time soon," the rogue smirked. "You really proved why dwarves should stay out of the fade. Your imaginary Bianca hurts."  
  
"Of course she does, and again, I’m sorry, but when it tempted me it implied that I should be jealous of my brother instead of the other way around. After all, I had escaped the Deep Roads with nothing but gold and jewels, while he returned with the treasure of the ages. I didn’t think much of it at the time, being all busy feeling guilty about what I did, but now…"  
  
"The treasure of the ages," Amell mused.  
  
"Named such by an ancient and powerful demon." Dagna was writing again, this was something that she needed to research.  
  
"Maker preserve us, I don’t like the sound of that," Bethany said with a worried look. She had been quiet so far, not having had much to add to the discussion.  
  
"Oh shush," Morrigan scoffed, raising her voice. “‘Tis as if you expect your age to be the noonday of history. The reality is that the bright day has long since passed, as have the dusk of the Tevinter Imperium. We live the long night, your Andraste but a candle lit to ward of the dark, but instead creating shadows you cower from. Dawn might be coming, but the coldest hours of the night still lie ahead."  
  
"Now if only can be a little more cryptic and obtuse and we might have something going here. Maybe a few more ‘beware the tall dark stranger’ and allusions to terrible things to come." Hawke made a face at the dark-haired witch. You did not take a shot at his sister and expect to get away with it.  
  
"Are you mocking me?" Morrigan crossed her arms over her chest, looking down her nose at Hawke.  
  
"See, I always knew you were the bright one here," the rogue replied with a wide, crooked smile.  
  
"Cousin, please," Amell tried to interrupt.  
  
"Oh you stay out of this," both Hawke and Morrigan snapped in unison.  
  
"Do you know who I am little man? I am Morrigan, the daughter of the Witch of the Wild." Her back was ramrod-straight and her eyes burned.  
  
"I know," Hawke said with the most nonchalant of shrugs. "Your dear old mum and me had a chat about you. Apparently you killed her but it didn’t stick."  
  
"You spoke with my mother?"  
  
"I did, and Maker’s breath, she was as full of it as you are. All obtuse ramblings about change and abysses, and daring to leap into the unknown to see if I could fly. Which by the way is the easiest prediction in the world to make; because, Maker, have you met me? Leaping head first into the unknown is what I do."   
  
"I can see that little man, and watch your landings, mark my words. One day I might be there, fangs ready." She bared her teeth in a sharp smile.  
  
"Excuse me; did you say you two were cousins?" Dagna had been patiently waiting for their argument to end, but now her patience was up.  
  
"Actually second cousins," Amell explained, leaping at the chance to divert the argument that was gathering steam. "His mother and mine were cousins."  
  
"Of the Amell family? Oh I would love to have a chat with you two about your family lineage later."  
  
"Not to interrupt," Varric interrupted, "but we still got a crazed, homicidal, and possibly possessed knight commander to find. I for one don’t want to be looking under my bed for the rest of my life."  
  
"If that walking statue truly is her anymore," Bethany said softly. "When a demon takes over completely in an abomination, the mage tends to be consumed to fuel the change. It might only be the Idol steeped in the memory of Meredith."  
  
"That is true," Dagna agreed. "But I am not so certain the Idol truly is a demon. But even if it should be something else, it does sound as if it was trying to fuse with the Knight Commander but her body could not handle the strain."  
  
"That or she was just overwhelmed with the power she had just channeled," Anders pointed out. "She’s a Templar, not a mage. All her gifts are gained by ingesting Lyrium."  
  
"Are you trying to say she tried to eat the relic?" Hawke asked the mental image far too disturbing.  
  
"In a manner of speaking, but it sounds as if something went wrong. This might all have been an accident." Anders folded his hands together.  
  
"An accident instead of an evil plan, I like this theory, Blondie."  
  
"I could feel that, in the cell," Anders continued. "It was broken and I was… influenced to fix it."  
  
"Which brought us and the shard here, but where did she go?" Amell had put the finger on the post important issue they had.  
  
"I have a theory about that," Dagna said, blotting what she had just written so it wouldn’t smear. "Maybe the shard was not brought to the statue, but the statue was brought to the shard. And you all ended up here in some form of mystical balancing act."  
  
"Are you saying that we might have an animated mage-hating statue stalking the mountains not that far from Starkhaven?" Hawke didn’t like it when his mind boggled, it hurt.  
  
"Not far from Kirkwall either," Varric suggested.  
  
"That hardly makes it better," Hawke complained.  
  
"What is it Anders? What is bothering you?" Nathaniel had spotted something in the healer’s face that the others had missed.  
  
"Maybe nothing," Anders said, frowning deeply. "Maybe. It’s just that magic isn’t engineering. It’s all about upsetting balances, not like for like."  
  
"That is true," Jamail agreed. "Still it is the best theory of where she might have ended up."  
  
"So what do we do now? I’m not going up there. It’s far too close to Starkhaven for my taste. I’ve got in inclination of giving Sebastian another shot at me."  
  
"There is no need, this is Warden business." Nathaniel’s voice was hard and dismissive.  
  
"Fine with me, as long as you agree that your business does not include Anders." Hawke’s voice turned hard as well, there was no way he would leave Anders with the Wardens.  
  
"It does not," Nathaniel said rather cryptically. "He has nothing more that we need. Still, he is always welcome back if he wishes."  
  
The look on both Hawke’s and Anders’ faces clearly sad that wasn’t happening any time soon.  
  
"If you are willing to cooperate, Ser Tethras, we would like to have a talk with your brother. You mentioned earlier that he is still alive. He is our only living link to the relic." Nathaniel was taking charge now, making plans and decisions.  
  
"Varric is fine, and I suppose a business visit back in Kirkwall really is overdue. I don’t trust Svein to manage my interests there much longer… But I have to warn you, he’s not the most coherent conversationalist on the best of days."  
  
"Good. Dagna will accompany you, and I will send Sigrun and Oghren as well. A group of dwarves travelling together looks less suspicious than a mixed party."  
  
"I’m willing to bet a sovereign that Sigrun volunteered for that duty," Hawke whispered to Anders.  
  
"I heard that, Hawke." Varric looked halfway annoyed, halfway amused.  
  
"You were meant to," Hawke said with a smirk.  
  
"And you, Jamail?"  
  
"I am not sure." Amell looked between Nathaniel and Morrigan. "I will stay for a while, I do not like the way all trace of the artifact suddenly disappeared. Before, the spirits whispered freely, now they are hushed and afraid. Everything is unclear."  
  
"We should return then ‘Tis not a place we should linger." Morrigan had her priorities straight, and they were not here.  
  
"Soon love; I want to pay a visit to Avernus first. It has been some time, and it would be my pleasure to introduce you to him."   
  
"Will I like him?" She sounded doubtful that would be the case.  
  
"I doubt so love, but since when has that ever stopped me?" Amell gave her one of his rare smiles, cracking her frown.  
  
“‘Tis true. You are an impossible man. As long as you do not get any ideas to get involved in foolish heroics again.”  
  
"Those days are behind me," he assured her with a look Hawke knew was the same look he wore when trying his best to lie.  
  
“‘Twas your own choice,” she reminded.  
  
"I know," Amell said, and Hawke stopped paying attention to the discussion. The meeting seemed to be breaking up, and he needed to catch Bethany before she left.  
  
"Got time for a chat Bethany?" Hawke waved off Anders’ protests with one hand behind his back as he headed over to her, the healer knew many things, but he couldn’t just walk around pretending he didn’t know. This was Bethany. His sister.  
  
"Can it wait brother? I need to go rescue Woofles from Feathers. He’s been more hysterical than normal since arriving here. I don’t think he took very well to just appearing inside a keep like this. He keeps barking at the walls as if he is expecting them to attack him at any moment." Bethany’s smile was innocent and wide, as if she had no idea what he wanted to talk about.  
  
"I forgot," Hawke said with a smile and headed after her. No way would she escape this easily, he just had to find the right angle of approach. "It must be his first time trapped somewhere he can’t see the sky."  
  
"I can understand him," Anders said, hovering behind the siblings like a worried crow. He kept sending Hawke warning glances, but Hawke merrily ignored them.  
  
"And he must miss Merrill," Bethany continued as she headed back towards her room, "He’s too young to be apart from the person he bonded to for this long."  
  
"At least we can head back now," Hawke said, putting a hand on her shoulder as he tried to sneak a peek on her belly. No sign yet.  
  
"I assume you two have somewhere you have put down roots?" She reached back and grabbed Anders arm, pulling the other mage up so she was walking between the two men, one arm around each. She had also spotted his unease earlier. They were family now after all, and it was a long time since she had seen him.  
  
"Oh, that’s right; you haven’t seen our secret base!" Hawke knew he shouldn’t be distracted, but he was anyway. He could ask her later. Soon.  
  
"You have a secret base?" Bethany asked, giving her brother a look of disbelief.  
  
"That’s right." If smug had a name, it would have been Ian Hawke.  
  
"One that sisters are invited to?" The question was innocent and airy and laced with history.  
  
"Are you ever going to let me live that down?"   
  
"No."  
  
"What are you two talking about?" Anders had to ask, pulled into the discussion despite himself.  
  
"Oh, just that my brother and Carver had a tree house when they were little, and I was not allowed in." Her pout was so reminiscent of Ian’s that Anders had to laugh.  
  
"I was fourteen!" Hawke defended himself. "And it was a secret base, to let a girl in, any girl, would defeat its purpose."  
  
"Which was what?" Anders asked, because building tree houses and having siblings were both things he had no experience in. The freedom to be a child. One of the things he was fighting for.  
  
"To be… men I suppose." Hawke hit his chest with his free hand. "Manly, manly men."  
  
"You hardly even had hair on your chest back then!" Bethany was choking down a giggle at the face her brother made.  
  
"This was the reason why girls were banned. I was secretly convinced they were preventing me to grow an awesome beard like father."   
  
"And suddenly I see a reason why you went for Anders instead of Isabela. Still afraid of cooties, brother?"  
  
"I do have a rather magnificent stubble when I don’t shave. Thank you for that Anders." He leaned over Bethany so he could give Anders a light kiss, ignoring the squeezed yelp of his sister.  
  
"Too bad that doesn’t help your receding hairline," Bethany teased once she wasn’t squashed between the two men.  
  
"I am not losing my hair," Hawke protested loudly.  
  
"You keep telling yourself that brother."  
  
"And this is why you never were invited into our tree house."  
  
"Too bad it burnt down…" Innocence, thy name was Bethany.  
  
"Nooo, you wouldn’t," Hawke begun, looking at his sister’s angelic face. "Oh Maker, you really did set fire to it. I had no idea you were that underhanded."  
  
"Carver had an idea. That’s why he nailed my braid to the bed."  
  
"Carver." Sometimes missing his brother came like a blow to the gut. Impossible to ignore. "Places like this make me miss the little twat. He would have loved the Wardens."  
  
"He would have," Bethany agreed with a sad smile.   
  
"Bethany," Hawke started, despite the look Anders shot him over her head. "About when you were captured by Sebastian…"  
  
"What about that?" They had heard the barking for a while, but now that they were approaching Bethany’s room it was clear that this was not an annoyed yip, this was the full fledged barking of a mabari warhound. And it was loud, echoing in the stone corridor. "Oh Maker, what is wrong with that dog."  
  
"Did you shut him in your room?" Hawke asked, distracted.  
  
"I had to. He kept running through the corridors like a nug on fire. I thought that if Woofles had a chance to talk to him, he would calm down." Bethany freed herself from the men, quickening her step.  
  
"I am not a dog person, but that does sound like instead you have two riled up dogs now." Anders pointed out.  
  
"Maker, you’re right," Hawke groaned. "He got Woofles started too. I thought he was too old for…" He fell silent, face growing serious.  
  
"What is it love? Remember, I don’t speak dog." Anders said the last as if he still only half believed it, but he’d lost too much money to that dog on cards form him to dismiss it entirely.  
  
"Danger?" Bethany translates. "He keeps barking danger, but what about?"  
  
"It doesn’t make sense," Hawke broke into a run.   
  
"Neither are you," Anders pointed out as he followed.  
  
"He keeps barking ‘In the walls, in the walls’", Bethany clarified as she kept up. "What is in the walls?"  
  
"Rats?" Anders asked.  
  
"Not unless they can burrow through solid stone. This is dwarf built." Hawke patted the wall next to the door as Bethany moved to unlock it. You couldn’t leave a Mabari in an unlocked room, they would get out.   
  
"Dwarf built. Like Kirkwall," Anders said, all the hairs rising on the back of his neck. There had been something… something he was missing.  
  
"In the stone," Bethany mumbled as the lock clicked open. "Feathers, Woofles, calm down! I can’t understand when you both bark at each other like this." She finally pulled the door open and the two mabari flew out, barking wildly at Anders.  
  
"Andraste’s knickers!" the mage swore, leaping back from the two possibly rabid dogs. His back hit the stone wall hard enough to almost slam the air out of him. The arm that wrapped around him from behind made him scream, loudly.  
  
Hawke screamed as well. He had turned around as the dogs leapt out, and he could see what had made a grab for Anders. An arm. Glowing. Red. Angular. Melting from the stone wall as effortlessly as if it had been the surface of a lake, a face surfacing next to Anders’ head. A familiar face.  
  
Meredith.


	20. Chapter 20

"Meredith!" The scream had left Hawke’s lips a moment after his hands had grabbed the arm that moved for Anders’ throat. The only reason it came a moment after rather than before was that Meredith was a really awkward name to scream in panic, far too many syllables. Maker, he hated his brain at times, even when it panicked it was preoccupied with the oddest things, maybe because then it didn’t have to think about the fact that he was not strong enough, his hands kept slipping, slick with blood, cut on sharp volcanic edges and Anders was choking and Maker where was the other hand, was it coming for them…  
  
The air thickened, then shivered, his eardrums hurting as if he’d been trapped in a bell tower, blasted by silent chimes. His chest deflated as air was forced from his lungs, and then both he and Anders were torn from the wall by a force strong enough to toss them like ragdolls. The glowing form of Meredith was pushed back into the wall, leaving cracks and splinters in its wake, as well as two sprawled men gasping on the floor.   
  
"Is he alright, brother?" Bethany flexed her grip on the staff, hair torn loose by the wave of force she had unleashed. The two mabari kept growling at the wall, the need for barks of warning having passed.  
  
"Maker’s breath, you could have taken his head off!" Hawke dragged the coughing mage to his feet, fear struggling with gratitude.  
  
"I didn’t," his sister replied evenly. "Ian, you need to trust that I know how to manage…"  
  
"Head," Anders coughed. "…still on shoulders. Argue later. Run now." His throat was bruised and scraped.  
  
Hawke put Anders’ arm over his shoulders, nearly dragging the gasping mage down the corridor, the mabaris scouting ahead while Bethany brought up the rear, staff at the ready.  
  
"What was that thing?" she asked, ushering the two men forward.  
  
"Meredith. Or well, the thing she turned into. Didn’t you see her face?" Hawke felt his lacerated hands knit together, realizing that at least Anders was well enough to heal them while they stumbled forward. Good, he had been worried.  
  
"I did, but Maker, how is that even possible?" Bethany held up her hand and they paused for a moment. Woofles had started growling again, and that was never a good sign.  
  
"I don’t know," Anders said, hands glowing green as he healed the bruises and cracked ribs he had sustained. The first deep breath without pain eased his frown. "She controlled those statues back in Kirkwall, maybe the relic has some connection with stone, maybe she can actually meld with it as well, at least if it…"  
  
"Duck!" Bethany snapped as stones rattled loose from the ceiling, forming together in a vortex of malicious energy. The two men dropped a moment before she slammed her staff down, crushing the forming shape to splinters against the floor. The splinters twitched a few moments and then grew still.  
  
"Well, that one is not going to be quacking any time soon," Hawke said, getting to his feet. The shape that the stones had been trying to form was looking all too familiar, and from the look Anders shared with him, he had spotted it too.  
  
"That is not funny, Ian." Bethany was frowning. Further down the corridor more stones fell from walls and ceiling, forming into lumbering creatures forced upright in a parody of life. "Maker, what are those things?"  
  
"Rock Wraiths," Anders said before Hawke had time to cut in with another joke. He shifted his own attention for a moment, surrounding them all with glowing shields of see-through energy. This was bad. "We encountered them in the Deep Roads; Varric said they were nothing but a dwarven legend…"  
  
"Why is it always me that has to stumble on all things legendary?" Hawke lamented, drawing his dagger now that Anders could stand on his own. Dagger. Singular. He trusted the Bassrath-Kata, but it was meant to fight living flesh. Not things like this. And his left hand felt naked.  Was his Antivan blade absorbed somewhere inside this Meredith mockery? If so that was another thing he could hold against her. As if he needed more reasons to hate the woman and the creature that she had become.  
  
"I think it runs in the family, love." Anders adjusted the shimmer of the shields until it was hardly visible, just a faint tinge of blue to their surroundings. "And these at least are the small ones."  
  
"I am willing to bet my long lost mansion that they won’t stay small for long. Things always grow bigger. Darkspawn. Dragons. Weird stone critters." Hawke growled the last, because the Rock Wraiths were moving towards them now, slowly advancing down the corridor. No choice but to push forward. "Back me up Woofles. Feathers, guard our mages."  
  
The mabaris barked, and Hawke was off, sprinting towards the creatures. No Aveline. No Fenris. He hated taking point, but with Anders and Bethany backing him up, it was possible. No smoke. No grenades. No poison. No armor. He hadn’t been prepared for battle inside a Warden fortress, which in retrospect he should have been. Blighted Wardens always messed things up.   
  
"Down!"   
  
Anders shout made Hawke drop to the floor, sliding past the Rock Wraith as ice filled the corridor, freezing the first wave of creatures a moment before the air shivered as Bethany smashed them to frozen splinters. It took trust and coordination to work with two mages, the air filled with energies he couldn’t afford to focus on. He had to trust they would guess what he would do next and not get him caught in a blast, and they had to trust he would be able to set the creatures up for their attacks. Get their attention. Anders he trusted with his life, Bethany was an unknown in this equation. It’d been years since they used to fight together, and he was still used to seeing her as his little sister with a talent for fire. Now she was a lot more than that.  
  
Hawke hissed as he ripped through a neural center with his blade, the energies searing his hand like nettles. By now Anders supported him; the faint energy connection the mage channeled making him faster, quicker, more aware of his surroundings. Like a third eye he always missed when they weren’t in battle. So close. Connected. He dropped below a lumbering punch, Woofles leaping on the creature a moment later, knocking it back. These things were aware but not very intelligent, if he hurt one, then moved to the next they would follow him like enraged bulls, not turning towards the vulnerable mages behind him. Vulnerable. Maker, was he any less vulnerable right now? Not even armored.  
  
A stony fist scraped the shimmering shield as he jumped back, counting the seconds until the mages would be ready for another whammy. He doubted that fire was of much use against creatures of stone, so they had to rely on ice and force. A bark made him drop without looking, and the blow passed through the air where his head had been a moment earlier. Woofles. He owed the old mabari his life many times over, but Maker, the battle wasn’t so intense he couldn’t see how his old friend was slowing down. Not as fast. Not as vicious. Instead of dodging the next blow he let it just slide past his left shoulder, ramming the arm so it changed direction and crashed into the creature behind him. Another drop and roll, and it was time again, the quick drop in temperature giving dog and man just enough time to throw themselves out of the way.  
  
More ice, cold enough to make his breath turn white, the creatures turning brittle like glass to be smashed by Bethany’s force. Hawke spotted a creature that had lumbered past him, now trapped by glowing green runes on the floor, half a step and half a blow from hitting Anders before it was paralyzed. The mage didn’t pay it any heed as he dealt with the majority of the creatures, and Feathers kept trying to bite it, tiny fangs barely chipping stone legs. Hawke ran back, keeping low and out of the mages’ onslaught. It was really too easy when the Wraith couldn’t defend itself, all it took was a deep stab into what amounted to the brain/heart/center of the thing, the metal in the runed blade short-circuiting the energies. It hurt, but the creature broke apart into a pile of stones again.  
  
Quiet.   
  
"Anyone need healing?" Anders asked, warily scanning the corridor.  
  
"I’m fine," Bethany said, tapping the butt of her staff on one of the now inert stones.  
  
"We’re fine," Hawke assured, scratching Woofles’ ear as he made sure the mabari had not been hit by anything. The brownish fur was turning grey around the muzzle and he kept panting, but no injuries. They had been lucky.  
  
"Why didn’t she come after us herself?" Anders asked, warily scanning the walls.  
  
"If she’s summoning creatures, she can’t really fight herself. That’s what she did at the gallows. That’s probably what she does now. Keeping herself safe while tiring us with waves of stone… Wait, what’s that? Smoke?" Hawke sniffed the air.  
  
"Grand, that’s all we need, Rock Wraiths on fire." Anders took a step closer to the rogue, but nothing new materialized.  
  
"No, I know this smell…" Hawke broke into a run in the direction of the smoke. He rounded the corner, almost tripping over another pile of now inert rocks. "Varric!"  
  
"I’m here, Hawke," the dwarf replied, Bianca at the ready. "Interesting vermin these Wardens have." The smoke bomb had cleared by now, just a thin haze in the air.  
  
"I think these are your vermin actually," Sigrun said, back to back with Varric, daggers drawn. "We never had trouble like this until you showed up here."  
  
"Now, now, Pigtails," Varric said, lowering the crossbow now that the threat had passed. "We can all share equally in the peril."  
  
"Or we can blame it all on Anders," Hawke suggested, then mouthed ‘pigtails?’ at the dwarf.  
  
"Thank you for that, love," Anders said a bit sharply than perhaps warranted. "It’s Meredith, Varric. She’s still here."  
  
"Don’t kid me like that, Blondie." There was a pause as Varric waited for anybody’s face to crack open in a grin, but when even Hawke remains serious he sighed, "Makers breath, you are serious."  
  
"Deadly so I’m afraid."   
  
"Well, at least that means one less trip to Kirkwall. Sorry about that, Pigtails."  
  
"Aw, don’t worry about it, Varric." Sigrun holstered her daggers. "There’s still every possibility that we’ll have an amazing and glorious death instead."  
  
"What’s this I hear about death?" Zevran sauntered around a corner, also with daggers drawn. "Does it have anything to do with the charming rock creatures that just won’t take no for an answer?"  
  
"Zevran!" Hawke said with no small amount of relief. Of course the assassin would have been in the guest quarters, just like the rest of them. "You’re fine." He ignored the puzzled look Anders cast him. He had a right to worry about his friends. Really.  
  
"Of course I’m fine Champion," the elf frowned briefly, then pulled one of his many daggers, tossing it to Hawke who caught it deftly. "No fun fighting these critters one handed, yes? I have plenty to spare."  
  
"I always was one for quality, not quantity," Hawke said, trying to sound untouched.  
  
"Was that a slur at my daggers? I assure you, my dear Champion, these are all the very best Antivan steel." Oh if looks could seduce, Hawke would be on his back by now.  
  
"If you boys are through posturing, I assume these creatures might be appearing across the Keep?" Bethany pushed forward, deliberately bumping into her brother with a ‘stop that’ look. "We can’t just stand here."  
  
"Sunshine’s got a point, Hawke." Varric looked around, but everything seemed quiet at the moment.   
  
"Zevran," Hawke started, turning to the assassin. "You find the Warden Commander; tell him what we’re dealing with here."  
  
"Which is what, now?" The elf sounded a bit amused, trading glares with Anders.  
  
"Meredith," Anders broke in. "Tell Nathaniel that it’s Meredith. She can meld into the walls and animate stone. We need to find her core before she brings the whole Keep down upon us."  
  
"That’s gonna be hard." Sigrun patted the wall. "Most of it’s dwarven made. Doesn’t fall easily."   
  
"Dwarven made," Anders mumbled to himself. "Just like the Gallows."  
  
"Tell the Warden Commander to get everybody who doesn’t fancy fighting an entire keep out of here." Hawke stepped close to Zevran. "I’m trusting you with this, if you don’t get through, nobody will."  
  
"Hawke, the stones are twitching again…" Varric said, accompanied by the growling of the mabaris.  
  
"I won’t let you down," Zevran whispered back. "Now you make sure to do the same, yes?"  
  
"We’ll kick her ass," Hawke said, mostly to himself, watching Zevran’s back as he ran back down the corridor.  
  
"I hate to ask this, Hawke," Varric had Bianca in his hands again. "But how are you planning to go about that? How are we even going to find that crazy bitch?"  
  
"We can," Anders broke in. "We have bait."   
  
"No blighted way, Anders." Hawke stepped up to the mage, reaching out to caress his cheek. "I won’t let you risk yourself like that."  
  
"Not me, love." Anders voice was soft, as soft as his hands when he placed them on Hawke’s shoulders. "You. She hated you far more than she ever hated me."  
  
"Blondie’s got a point," Varric agreed.  
  
"How does that even work? Maker, you blew up the Chantry…"  
  
"Oh don’t be such an idiot, love. I’m exactly what she expected. A mage abomination standing against the Templars. Yes, I blew up the Chantry, but do you truly think she cared for the Grand Cleric? Who kept treating her like a little girl? I did the woman a favor, she wanted a war. She wanted proof that we would do such a thing. But you… Andraste’s ass, you’re not a mage, your mother was even killed by blood magic, and yet you had the gall to oppose her. You took everything she believed true and shoved back in her face. If she wanted anybody dead, it would be the Champion of Kirkwall. Why did you think she had your statue cast like a Templar? Because statues last longer than memories, and once you were dead, she would be free to rewrite your story the way she wanted."  
  
"I take great offense with that," Varric said. "That’s my job."  
  
"Fine," Hawke said. "Even better. I can be bait. I’m good at annoying people. Her most of all."  
  
"Can she possibly believe these Rock Wraiths will bring us down?" Bethany asked, having smashed the twitching splinters into smaller bits while the others spoke.  
  
"Maybe it’s not about harming," Sigrun pointed out. "Maybe she’s trying to corral us like a flock of nugs. All the Rock Wraiths came from one direction, instead of surrounding us."  
  
"I am not a blighted nug," Hawke protested as Anders snorted. "I don’t care what color I was back in Rivain."  
  
"Agreed, love. Now let’s try to team up with the others, because last time it took half an army to bring her down, and…" the healer broke off, frowning.  
  
"And what? That’s not a good ‘and.’" Hawke kept twirling the dagger he had got from Zevran, trying to get used to the balance and weight of it.  
  
"She’s stronger, isn’t she, Blondie?" Varric sighed, looking up at the healer.  
  
"Maybe," Anders admitted, eyes flickering aside. "She’s not flawed anymore."  
  
"I just love good news," Hawke smiled, finally sheathing his blades. "And we don’t have an army of Templars to reluctantly back us up this time."  
  
"But you do have an army of Wardens," Sigrun said, tossing Hawke a leftover smoke bomb.  
  
"I’d rather have Wardens than Templars," Anders agreed. "But we’re all separated, easy to pick off."  
  
"Then let’s form up and work out a plan and kick the arse of the Knight Commander. Done it once, will happily do it again." Hawke dearly hoped it wouldn’t be a third time.   
  
…  
  
Finding the others proved to be harder than they had imagined. The guest quarters had been near the north face of the Keep, and to get to the center they had to wade through wave upon wave of Rock Wraiths. It was as Hawke had feared, when they first appeared they were small and brittle, but sometimes they came across creatures that had the time to merge and grow, forming into harder entities, though none as vicious as the ancient one that had nearly slain them in the Deep Roads. With Sigrun at his back, Hawke no longer had to rely so heavily on Woofles, and he had gladly ordered the mabari to guard Anders and Bethany. It was safer back there, especially now with Varric a part of the group, always ready with a bolt or a grenade. And while Sigrun was not Isabela or Zevran, they slowly found themselves clicking well enough to keep each other safe. Maybe they could really do this.  
  
At times they had caught glimpses of what might have been Meredith, a shine inside a stony wall, a shadow quickly stepping back as they approached. She seemed to have learned her lesson, allowing them no time to strike, just sent wave after wave of creatures after them, intent on bludgeoning them to the point of exhaustion. And the horrible part was that it worked. Hawke was breathing hard, marked by mottled bruises not dangerous enough to bother healing. Bethany’s forehead was covered by a thin film of sweat, and the only one that looked unfazed was Varric. As always.  
  
“‘Tis creatures grow tiresome,” they heard a voice exclaim down a set of narrow stairs.  
  
"Morrigan?" Hawke shouted, heading down the stairs, eager find some new allies at least. The heat of flames hit them with enough force to make them take a step back, but they died down a moment later as the battle shifted far below.  
  
"I don’t like the look of this, Hawke." But despite his protests, Varric took a step after Hawke. Just a step  
  
"Don’t be such a…" Hawke begun, but the sentence ended in a yelp as Varric grabbed him by the dagger harness on his back, yanking him back as the walls quivered. The staircase twitched under their feet, both of them scrambling back at the last second as the roof and walls constricted, squashed together as if the staircase down had been the mouth of some ancient beast that had wanted to swallow them.  
  
"Hawke!" Anders shouted, but the two men were safe, by inches.  
  
"Looks like somebody don’t want us to join forces," Sigrun said, giving the fallen rocks a kick. "Nice collapse, haven’t seen that good a block since the Deep Roads. Going to take a lot to blast that away."  
  
"That staircase tried to eat me," Hawke panted, watching the cracked jumble of stones where he had stood a moment earlier. "I’ve never had that happen before, not even in that blighted Warden’s prison."  
  
"Maker’s breath, Hawke. For once I would have like to have an ordinary monster going after us. Like an ogre," Varric said, brushing his sleeves as he stood up.  
  
"Remember when we first met, Varric?" You hadn’t even seen an ogre back then, and now you miss them."  
  
"Those were the days, Hawke."  
  
"The good old days?"  
  
"The good old boring days. I’m not sorry I met you." Varric patted Hawke’s shoulder as he headed down an alternate route.  
  
"Give it an hour; you still have time to change your mind." Hawke rolled his eyes a little, but kept watching the walls more carefully now. Why had she collapsed that staircase, and not the corridor they stood in now? They were missing something here, but what…  
  
"Sigrun," Anders asked, as if he had read Hawke’s mind. "This is… not dwarf-made, is it?"  
  
"No, it’s not. Just made to look like it. But you can see the stones, they’re cut completely different The keep suffered a lot of damage in the past, first in the Orlesian wars, then the blight, and then that siege when you was off saving Amaranthine…" Sigrun looked a bit amused as if she didn’t understand how anybody could confuse human stonework with dwarven. "It’s a bit of a patchwork."  
  
"Back at the guest quarters," Hawke said, catching on to what Anders was talking about. "Those bits were dwarven made, right?"  
  
"Of course, most of the keep still is, it’s just the areas here, and the whole bit down towards the gate and the assembly hall. I think it was almost collapsed once upon a time, Orlesian mages and earthquakes or something. I’m not a stone-reader." The dwarf gave a cheerful little shrug.  
  
"It’s not stone she can control," Anders said. "It’s dwarf-cut stone. That relic must be deeper connected to dwarf history than we guessed."  
  
"So we just stay in the newly built areas and we’ll be safe?" Bethany asked with a look of relief on her face.  
  
"Apart from the odd marauding Stone Wraith, I think you’re right, Sunshine."  
  
"That means that at least we’ve got a moment’s respite."  
  
"I don’t want to alarm you, Hawke, but I don’t have a plan how to get out of this one." Varric didn’t lower Bianca; he kept his gaze peeled at the end of the corridor.  
  
"If you didn’t want to alarm me, then you could have lied, you know." Hawke managed a rather impressive hurt look, a hand over his heart as he looked soulfully at the dwarf.  
  
"Oh, lies, of course. What a time to get a writer’s block." Varric tried hard to not crack a smile, but it was Anders that saved him.  
  
"Block…" the healer snapped, looking at Varric, then Sigrun. "What did you say before, about a block…"  
  
"That… it would take a lot of explosives to clear that one up?" Sigrun looked confused at first, then understanding dawned. "Of course sparkle-butt!"  
  
"Sparkle-butt?" Hawke looked between the two, then at their backs as they started running in a completely different direction. "Hey, wait up and explain, I don’t go rushing wildly into doom without a plan."  
  
"Hawke, that is what you do," Varric pointed out as he broke into a run as well. Hawke couldn’t really disagree.  
  
"It’s downstairs? Right?" Anders ignored the others, keeping up with Sigrun who was surprisingly fast on her short legs.  
  
"It is. Dworkin made a lot before he had to go into hiding. We stored most of it in the dungeons. Never knew when it could come in handy again."  
  
"Whatever you two are talking about," Hawke said as he caught up, "it will have to wait. Woofles is growling again, that means we’ve got company."  
  
"Oh we’ve got more than company," Anders said, readying his staff as they rounded a corner only to be cut off by Stone Wraiths, stony arms swinging menacingly. "We’ve got a plan."  
  
A vicious howl behind the Wraiths made them pause, and then something small and metal-clad crashed into them from behind.  
  
"I hope that’s part of your plan," Hawke said, pulling his daggers.  
  
"Not really," Anders admitted as Oghren headbutted  one Stone Wraith, then heaved into them with his massive axe. "But I can lie if it will make you feel better?" Shields shimmered to life around them once more.  
  
"Would you?" Hawke asked, making puppy-dog eyes at the mage.  
  
"It’s all part of the plan," Anders assured with an amused little smile.   
  
"See, you understand me." Hawke said, stressing the ‘you’ as he gave Varric a mock-glare.  
  
"Oh go kill something Hawke, you two are insufferably cute," the dwarf grumbled, sending a rapid series of explosive bolts into the stony creatures but with little effect.  
  
Oghren roared again, and Hawke wondered if it was his breath that made the creature stagger back, or the fact that the warrior had actually knocked several stones lose of the matrix that held them. It didn’t really matter, in the end whatever worked, worked. That was the first lesson to be learned in any battle. Do what it took to win. And he planned to do just that. Maker, he was even smiling as he leapt into the fray, backed by hounds and magic.  
  
…  
  
It was a bit intimidating really, Hawke thought to himself a little later, as he picked the lock to the secure armory. Watching mages throw their weight around made him far too aware that against things like this, he was just a man with two glorified pointed sticks. Fighting really was like a game of rock, paper and scissors. He was the scissors, toss him against the paper of mages or lightly armored warriors and they’d be dead before they realized it, but against the rock of, well, rock creatures like this, and his blades would get blunt far before his opponent fell. Adding Oghren to the mix just simplified things so much. The warrior had the stamina to stand their blows, and the strength to truly damage them. Sometimes he admitted to being a little envious, it had been the same way with Fenris. Fighting with that particular abandon looked so… liberating.  
  
"There, open." He patted the lock and rose to his feet. "Didn’t I say not to worry about a key? There’s not a lock made I can’t tickle open."   
  
"Good," Varric stumbled as another quake rocked the castle. "I don’t know who she’s fighting, but I’m glad she’s distracted for a moment."  
  
"Amell," both Anders, Sigrun and Oghren said as once, then broke into a shared, embarrassed laugh.  
  
"Oh great," Hawke muttered, pushing the door open. He wasn’t sure exactly what made his blighted cousin so special, sure, defeating an Arch Demon was a bit impressive, but he’d done as impressive things. Almost. Really. "So let’s hear your plan now."  
  
The room was mostly empty apart from carefully spaced crates, which when opened contained small metallic spheres, oddly heavy and with an odd, almost familiar scent.   
  
"Is this Gaatlok?" he asked, it didn’t seem like it, and the spheres were not much larger than his normal grenades.   
  
"Not exactly," Anders explained, quickly emptying out his bag so he could fill it up with bombs. "It’s similar though, but also involves Lyrium. Though it was still similar enough that their creator got the Qunari after him for daring to delve into these things. They are quite a bit stronger. And a lot more expensive."  
  
"Poor Dworkin," Oghren huffed, keeping guard on the door. "Damn blighter could really drink it up. Miss the mad bastard."  
  
"Lyrium versus Lyrium," Hawke said with a thin smile. "I like that idea."  
  
"I thought you might," Anders said, smiling back. "So the plan is that we lure Meredith to the assembly hall. It’s large enough to have room to fight, and it’s in the newly constructed part of the Keep, so she will hopefully not be able to just melt into the walls again. We lure her there, then we blow her up. This here was made to blow holes in stones."  
  
"Good plan," Hawke agreed, reaching for the bag.  
  
"Andraste’s seared nipples, be careful! These things are a lot more volatile than Gaatlok. This amount could collapse this entire room easily."  
  
"I’ll be careful," Hawke assured.  
  
"If not, you’ll be dead," Anders cautioned. "We all will. Now, we need to prepare, I think there might be some Lyrium here too…" he rummaged through another crate, pulling out a few Lyrium potions. "Perfect." He chugged one down with a grimace, handing another to Bethany.  
  
"None for me," she said, shaking her head. "I’m fine. I don’t need it."  
  
"Are you sure, Sunshine?" Varric gave her a scrutinizing look. "I don’t want you to fall down fainting up there; you’ve been our biggest gun against these creatures. Maker knows they shrug off my bolts."  
  
"I’m sure." Bethany handed the potion back to Anders, who shared a look with Hawke. That settled it; she knew she was pregnant if she stayed away from Lyrium.  
  
"So how do you use them?" Hawke looked at one of the spheres rather than looking at his sister. He wanted to shake her by the shoulder, ask her about the father and then hide her away somewhere safe until this was over with. Maker… but he had no choice.  
  
"It’s easy," Sigrun instructed. "Just grab this little tab here and then twist the top, you’ve got to about the count of three before it blows up. Most of the time. Dworkin lost four apprentices and another smith while working on these, they’re not exactly predictable."  
  
"I like them already." Hawke pulled the strap of Anders bag over his shoulder. Then he turned to the crate "Varric, could you take a look at these?"  
  
"What now, Haw…" the dwarf leaned forward to look, but was interrupted by a blow to the back of his skull, Hawke catching him before he fell.   
  
"Sorry about that, Varric," Hawke told the unconscious dwarf as he put him down on the ground. "But I’m not dragging you into this one."  
  
His friends kept looking at him as if he had turned mad, so he quickly defended himself “He would never have left on his own accord. Sigrun? It is up to you and Oghren to get him out of here. Woofles, you and Feathers keep them safe.”  
  
"This is madness, Sparklefingers." Oghren grumbled a bit as he walked over, poking the lanky mage in his stomach. "You’re not being a nug-humpin’ idiot and walking in there on your lonesome. She’d eat your skanky ass for breakfast."  
  
"He’s not going alone," Hawke interrupted, saving Anders from the increasingly agitated dwarf. "I’m going with him."   
  
"And what about me, brother?" Bethany’s voice was cold as ice. "Are you leaving me behind again? It nearly killed you in the Deep Roads."  
  
"Maker, I wish I could." Hawke hesitated, wanting so dearly to tell her to run, to be safe, that he knew about the child. But they needed to end this, and… "I need you and Anders to get me there. I can’t do this alone."  
  
"Varric is going to kick himself that he wasn’t around to hear that admission," Anders muttered, checking the dwarf for further injuries. "But you are right. This will be dangerous. No need to risk more people than is absolutely needed."  
  
"I don’t agree with your decisions here, longlegs," Sigrun glared at Hawke, and he had a sinking feeling he might have made himself an enemy. "But I will get him out of here. Come on Oghren, I need a hand."  
  
Woofles barked, then whined, but Hawke was adamant. “Varric is family too. We’ll be safe. You worry about him now.” Luckily the mabari had enough loyalty to the unconscious dwarf that had taught him how to play cards that he obeyed. Reluctantly.  
  
"Now, get out of here. Meredith doesn’t even know you, so with a bit of luck, you won’t have many problems." Hawke shooed the dwarves down one corridor, then climbed back up the stairs they had just descended.   
  
"Do you even know where you’re headed?" Anders asked.  
  
"No idea. But you do. I hope. Because I am right. This way there are fewer of us for you to heal and cover. And Varric and the mabaris were less than useful against stone. They’d just be at risk. You saw what nearly happened to Woofles when I fought the Arishok." Hawke stomped ahead, but Anders caught up on one side and Bethany on the other.  
  
"We could have used a distraction though," the healer started. "Oghren is…"  
  
"Oghren is needed to help Varric get the blight out of here. I couldn’t leave him with just Sigrun for protection."  
  
"Ian is right," Bethany said with a tired sigh. "We’ve lost enough people."  
  
"Is this a Hawke thing?" Anders asked, looking at the face the siblings sported. "Oh Andraste, it’s about your brother isn’t it. The one who died."  
  
"Carver." Bethany’s face was hard. "I won’t have that happen again. Not if I can help it."  
  
"You should understand, Anders," Hawke pointed out. "If it was you that Meredith wanted the most, you’d have paralyzed us all and walked away to be a martyr all over again."  
  
"This is my fault," Anders said, shields shimmering alive as the sound of stone scraping against stone could be heard in a distance. "I should never have let myself be tricked into healing her; I should have blown up her office back in Kirkwall instead of the Chantry, I…"  
  
"Why didn’t you?" Bethany asked. "I always wondered. You hated Templars far more than the Chantry.  
  
"Too much security," the healer admitted. "I would never have got far enough in to place the explosives in the Templar quarters, the tunnels only led to the mage areas and… had I planted something there; you would have been at risk as well. You and the people I was doing this for."  
  
"It’s not just your blighted fault," Hawke interrupted, because this discussion still made him feel like he was eating glass. He wondered if he would ever stop feeling like he wanted to punch Anders for being an idiot whenever the Chantry was brought up. He understood the mage, but Maker… "Now let’s get over it and go kill ourselves a former Knight Commander."  
  
"Fine, brother," Bethany said, force building around her as the first Rock Wraith rounded the corner. "But how do we find her?"  
  
"Oh you just leave that to me," Hawke said with a smirk. "This time, I’ve got a plan."


	21. Chapter 21

“You didn’t tell me that your plan involved walking around shouting insults to a non-present evil entity.” Anders sounded like he wasn’t sure whether to be amused, annoyed or frightened as he followed Hawke closely, keeping an eye on the walls.

“For good reasons too, you would have told me I was insane.” Hawke tried to ignore the weight of the bag slung over his shoulder, the awkward feel of the bombs nesting there like little dragon eggs. How much movement would it take to make them explode on accident? He didn’t exactly fight standing still.

“We both would have!” Bethany had her staff in a secure grip, hair loose and wild and a frown near permanently etched on her brow. 

“You hear that Meredith?” Hawke shouted, making both his comrades jump. “Not only have you been played the fool by a simple smuggler, you’ve been bested by one that’s insane.”

“Insane and loud. Let’s not forget loud.” Anders gave Hawke a skeptical look, rubbing his ear a little. 

“Did I ever tell you how much I laughed at you behind your back you insufferable bitch? Talk about delusions of grandeur, you couldn’t touch me despite the fact that I slept with the most noteworthy apostate in Kirkwall.” Hawke had no ideas if she had eyes in the stone as well, but it still felt good to reach out and put his arm around Anders, giving him a kiss on the cheek before letting go.

“I doubt she cares about who you slept with, Ian.” Bethany looked like she wasn’t sure whether to slap her brother on the back of his fool head or not.

“Oh you’d be surprised,” Hawke said with his most serious look. “She’s a Templar, and they are all about disapproving. All those Chantry people are. Just look at Sebastian. It would do him a world of good to just drop his pants and get laid, might have saved me a lot of pain if he did.”

Bethany blushed brightly crimson, looking away. “I don’t think that’s…” she started, and then the walls started crumbling around them.

Rocks fell, bouncing off Anders’ shields only to reform into Rock Wraiths, lit from the inside by a malicious red glow. Stone scraped against stone as they surged forward, slowly and lumbering at first but gathering speed quickly.

“Andraste’s perky tits, at least you’ve drawn out more rock wraiths,” the healer said with half a laugh, energy cracking around his staff as he prepared to fight.

“Let’s just push past them this time, make them chase us.” Hawke sheathed his dagger, keeping light on his feet as he waited for the right moment.

“And how do you propose to do that, love?” 

“Leave that to me, Anders.” Bethany cracked her neck, raising her staff above her head, the air growing heavy and oppressive around her. “Be ready to deal with any stragglers though.”

With a loud crack she brought her staff down, and around the three of them, the air thickened like curdled milk. The rock wraiths slowed like flies in syrup, enabling even the two mages to push past them with ease. Once past, the running resumed, the rocks slowly tearing themselves free from their bondage to follow.

“Not to quibble brother, but why are we being chased again?” Bethany asked, out of breath, hair in disarray. “We could have destroyed them.”

“Maybe we’ve been killing them too fast,” Hawke answered, looking back over his shoulder. “They’re not like the statues of the Gallows that were blighted near impossible to bring down after all. And as long as she keeps summoning them she’s safely in hiding somewhere. We can’t get at her. She could be anywhere.”

“Watch yourself, Hawke, we’ll make a general of you yet.” Anders paused as they came to a fork in the corridor. After a moment of hesitation he picked the left path.

“Don’t even joke about that…” Hawke grumbled. General? That would be the day. “Are you sure this is this the right way to the assembly hall?”

“I think so.”

“I think so?”

“It’s been more than a decade since I was here last, and I left it half in ruin.”

“And nobody around to ask for directions either,” Bethany tried to sound lighthearted, but the empty corridors were starting to get downright creepy.

“You’ve got a point,” Hawke admitted. “Where is everybody?”

“Fighting somewhere else I suppose. Amell won’t go down easily, and there’s a gaggle of Wardens with him. “Can’t you feel the tremors?”

Once Anders pointed them out, Hawke realized that yes, there were tremors in the floor. At first he had thought they came from the rock wraiths, but these were heavier rumbles, like distant thunder in the mountains.

“Fighting what? If we can wade through the rock wraiths before they grow I’m having a hard time imagining the wardens having trouble.” Bethany had stopped to listen as well, but they had to start moving again once the rock wraiths approached.

“Maybe they’re not as tough as they’d like to pretend.” Hawke shot Anders a teasing grin.

“I’ve got the impression it’s the other way around. Who tends to need rescuing around here lately?” 

“Don’t rub it in sister, maybe Meredith actually has gone after them first…” Divide and conquer, the first rule of combat.

“Andraste’s dimpled bum! The statue…” Anders stopped in his tracks, then picked up the pace.

“What statue?” 

“I forgot you hadn’t seen it, love, it’s outside, in the front courtyard. It’s of the Hero of Ferelden. The dwarves brought it as a gift after the blight had ended. Lord Harrowmount spared no expense.”

“Of my cousin? Maker, I thought I was the only one with a statue.”

“He actually has two. There’s one in Denerim as well, but this one is bigger. Oghren said the dwarves were probably truing to overshadow the one that was erected in Denerim. Dwarven pride and all that.”

“And I suppose this one is big?” No, there was no sarcasm at all in Hawke’s words.

“Not as big as the ones in Kirkwall.”

“That’s a relief anyway.”

“It sounds angry though,” Bethany pointed out as yet another violent shock rocked the keep.

“Very angry,” Hawke agreed.

“The Hero of Ferelden versus the Hero of Ferelden.” Anders paused to ice the path behind them, slowing the progress of the pursuing rock wraiths. The cold air made his breath mist in the narrow corridor.

“You’d think with all the things I messed up for her, I’d at least rate an angry statue. But noo, my cousin has to go and be the big hero again.” Hawke knew he sounded like a sulking child, but it was preferable to sounding scared. At times like this, humor was the last refuge of the damned, even if it meant that he’d come off as a bit of an idiot. He had lived like one after all. Might as well keep it up until the end.

“Don’t be sore brother; I think it’s just that we are not outside.” Bethany patted his shoulder, her face set in that faintly worried frown she always had when things got serious. 

“Should we change our plan or stick to it?” Hawke hesitated as he looked to the others for advice. Maybe trying to join forces with the others would have been the smarter move after all. Just trying to wear the things down through superior numbers and hope for the best. 

“I don’t know,” Bethany pondered. “What are the odds that Meredith is out  there as well?”

“Doesn’t matter really, we need to get through the assembly hall to get outside anyway.” Anders pointed down a larger corridor, brushing back some of the blond strands that had escaped. 

“We stick to the plan then.” Hawke cast a look over his shoulder, then ran. Maybe it was better that way, he didn’t want to risk her getting away again. He had enough problems in life without being hounded by the specter of that harridan.

“If you call that a plan.” Trust Anders to lighten a mood he hadn’t even noticed had begun to darken.

“I do,” Hawke said with a breathless protest as he kicked open the door to the assembly hall. “And we’re here… where are you, Meredith you naughty girl?” The shout echoed through the empty hall, only answered by the rumblings of battle in the distance. 

“Here comes the wraiths,” Bethany warned, raising her staff  as force begun curling in around her.

“Just slow them for now.” Anders put a hand on her shoulder, faint green sparks flowing into her skin, a milder way to replenish fading reserves than the harsh brilliance of lyrium.

 Hawke had turned his back on the two mages, walking into the center of the room. The ceiling loomed a distant grey, metal chandeliers providing him with the possibility of more maneuverability. It was not a bad room to fight in, large enough for movement, and with enough furniture to help keeping out of harm’s way. Until they turned to splinters. Way to think positive, Hawke, he chastised himself. Instead he raised his voice into another shout.

“You know something Meredith?” Was she even listening? Could she hear through the wraiths if the walls were not friendly to her purposes? “You know why you never got support from the nobles? Because they didn’t trust you.” 

Words were just like a knife fight, find the weak spot and dig in. Before she had been corrupted by the artifact, she had been a driven woman. She had wanted what she thought was best for the city, even if people didn’t agree. She had wanted to save everyone. Was that what had made the artifact a tempting choice? A whisper in the dark that agreed with her when things begun to turn against her?

“All those years of service, and still they would turn to a jumped up smuggler, mage sympathizer and lowborn foreigner rather than you.” He had jumped on top of a table now, mocking the invisible audience of one. “Even the grand cleric laughed at you. Told you to go home and be a good girl.” 

The floor shook with a violence that nearly toppled Hawke from his perch. He sank down on one knee, looking around. Anders met his eyes, halfway across the floor to him, Bethany a step behind.

“What was that?” She steadied herself on her staff, looking back at the surging rock wraiths, crawling through the doorway, ever so slowly.

“Earthquake maybe.” Anders raised his staff and the floor around the wraiths turned green, the first ones halting in mid step, the ones behind blocked by their friends. 

“And speaking of the late grand cleric?” Hawke ignored the mages, raising his voice again. “You remember the apostate that blew her up? Well, I fucked him on your desk.”

“Hawke, we didn’t…” Was that a faint blush on Anders’ cheeks or was it just exertion?

“We should have.” Hawke jumped off the table, because the tremors were coming stronger now, the oppressive atmosphere building.

“I think it’s working,” Bethany said, looking around, staff at the ready as if she was expecting the ceiling to collapse upon them.

“Trust me to annoy people,” Hawke proclaimed proudly. “It’s a gift.”

Maker, was the ceiling really coming down? He stepped closer to the mages just in case, he’d had enough buildings fall on top of him to last him a lifetime. But it was not the ceiling, it was the wall that thundered and shook, stones crashing down in a vicious torrent of blocks that caused all three of them to leap back in case the collapse would spread. But it was not a quake, but a blow, a malign entity digging fingers into rocks and splintering them in an explosion tinged with red. Unearthly red. Twisted crimson. A colder glow than the heart of the underground lava currents in the deep roads, but Hawke imagined he could feel his cheeks blister all the same. And then, shoving bricks and stones aside, in strode the statue.

Maker’s breath, it was big. It still retained a resemblance to his cousin, but the sharp features of the Hero of Ferelden had swelled and bubbled as if melted by fire, the armor nearly indiscernible underneath layers of writing rocks.

“That… was not part of the plan,” Hawke said, trying not to sputter in disbelief. He’d like to think he succeeded, but he was far too busy to stop himself from backing up further to sound really smooth.

“I thought you said you wanted to fight the statue.” Anders sounded blessedly calm, as if this sort of thing was something he did every day, and Hawke supposed that he had to take a few of the stories of his exploits with the Wardens a bit more seriously now.

“I didn’t know it was so blighted big!” The protest came unbidden, because he’d imagined a statue maybe twice, thrice his height, not this nearly amorphous mass of malignant rock that brushed against the ceiling. And the ceiling was very far away.

“It’s grown,” Anders said, hair tangling in his sweaty face as he renewed their shields, the world turning a fainter shade of blue once more.

“How in the name of the Maker does a statue grow?” It was a perfectly valid question, the statues at the Gallows hadn’t grown, but as a little voice in his head reminded him, Meredith hadn’t been in full control then. Not like now. Now that Anders had healed her.

“Look, it’s absorbing the rock wraiths.” Bethany had kept quiet and back, mouth set in a decisive frown while she surveyed the situation. Some of the rock wraiths that they had lured here were skidding across the floor, pulled into the larger mass, rocks grinding together with a sound that set her teeth on edge.

“I knew it. They always grow bigger. Maker I hate fighting big things.” Hawke sheathed his dagger, because he was going to need both his hands and a dagger was just a pinprick against something like this. He’d break his steel and then the stone would break him.

“Hawke, there, in the chest…” Anders pointed, and then as the air was filled with dust and gravel he raised his staff, sending a bolt of lightning into the statue. The air flashed white, blinding, leaving a smell of ozone in its wake, and the statue swiveled towards them.

“I see it,” Hawke snapped excitedly as he spotted the reddish crystal form nearly embedded in stone. “She’s the heart. You two, get out of here.”

“I’m not leaving you.” Bethany’s voice was as hard as a slap as she readied her staff.

“And the exits are all blocked by rubble now anyway,” Anders said with the faintest of shrugs, giving Hawke an apologetic smile. He would have got Bethany out of there if he could. Considering what the two of them suspected

“It must have been pushing through the castle to get us.” A golden glow spread around the statue, forming nausea-inducing patterns on the ground. But the behemoth struggled against the pull, Bethany’s spell doing little but slow it down a fraction.

“I’m flattered,” Hawke said, still standing between the two mages, who had started the assault. It felt like a storm in the mountain, snow and lightning and quakes that made the ground shiver as the statue tore itself free enough of the wall it had crashed through to start walking towards them, feet partly encased in ice.

“Any day now Hawke.” Anders gestured impatiently, green mites permeating the air, sinking inside their skin, binding the three closer together. Stronger. Fitter. Faster…

That was the rush that Hawke had been waiting for, shifting the bundle of bombs on his back, smiling as the stature towered above them. “Back me up then.”

“Always,” Anders said, frown on his face, focusing on ice now, on frost and slowness and slippery ground.

“Just go Ian, it’s not getting smaller!” Bethany smashed her staff down on the floor, causing a shower of stones to fall from the statue is if it had been hit by the heaviest of blows.

No, Hawke thought to himself, it wasn’t getting smaller at all.  

Skirting stones and ice, Hawke found himself looking up in awe. Maker’s breath it was huge. Would it even notice him? And how would he get up there? Batting aside a bolt of lightning, the statue shifted slightly and brought a giant fist down in his direction. Cursing loudly, Ian rolled, hoping that the explosives weren’t as volatile as he feared they were. It seemed that getting noticed wasn’t a problem. Coughing from the dust, he checked himself. Not blown up yet. Good. And since the statue had punched through the floor into the basement, it had also solved his problem of getting up there. 

A jump brought him across the crumbling floor, landing on the massive wrist. Running up the arm was less than ideal, but maybe the fist was stuck, or maybe Bethany managed to contain it for a moment, because it stayed still long enough for him to reach the upper arm, and shove two of the bombs into one of the deep cracks that formed and reformed.

“Watch out!” he yelled, silently counting the seconds, crawling across the statue’s shoulders, trying to ignore his cousin’s reproachful gaze. He managed to get in cover on the other shoulder just as the bombs exploded. Maker. Whatever crazy dwarf that had made this knew his business. The room filled with dust and falling stones, and Hawke clung to a half absorbed rock wraith as he was pelted by debris. 

“Hawke?” Anders’ voice cut through the dust, the wind picking up as a snowstorm cleared the air. Biting cold, screeching winds.

“Thank you for making my fingers so cold they might be breaking off!” Hawke yelled back, the sudden cold misting his breath. His exposed flesh ached, but he supposed he could at least breathe without choking on the dust.

“You’re welcome!” Anders yelled back, the cold intensifying as he started icing up the ground.

“I was being ironic!” Hawke yelled in frustration, clinging on as the statue lurched against the mages. An entire arm had been blown off, but it wasn’t like a statue could feel pain. Anger however… it certainly didn’t seem happy as it raised its foot to stomp on the annoying gnats below.

“I was thanking you for the idea!” 

Anders looked so small down there, Hawke screaming out a warning as the statue stomped down, the mage ducking back at the last moment. The stones, brittle from the cold, cracked and crumbled, and Bethany slammed her staff down with all her force, breaking the floor apart under the statue’s foot. It stumbled, one foot caught in the cellar below, and Ian took the chance to slide down the chest towards the Meredith crystal.

It was hot under his hands, and burned with something he would almost call a song. It was hard keeping his head clear so he could plant the bombs there, trying to find cracks that he could exploit. Six seconds since he planted the first. He tried to keep count, but he couldn’t afford to mess this up. Five seconds. He needed to make sure she was destroyed this time. More bombs. Three seconds. Destroyed for real.

“Please don’t come back this time,” he joked, wondering if she even heard him.. If she was conscious of anything but hate. Two seconds, he had to jump now, had to…

And then her crystal hand grabbed him. A hard grip, around his wrist. And yes she was conscious, and yes there was hate in her eyes, and then the bombs exploded. All of them.

The blast knocked Hawke away, shrapnel tearing at his flesh though ironically, Meredith herself had shielded him from the worst. She had let go, and now he was tumbling towards a floor filled with jagged rocks ready to impale him, and fainting felt like such a good idea except someone intercepted his fall, the pain wrenching him back to reality as they landed in a somewhat controlled roll. Still alive.

“You’re making a habit out of this, aren’t you?” Hawke managed to spit out, checking so all his limbs were still attached.

“Perhaps I am, dear champion.” Zevran was bruised and battered, but the smile was as smug as ever as he handed him some elfroot, peeking over the rock they had landed behind.

“Are you all the reinforcements we get?” Hawke didn’t even complain about the taste, just drank it down and felt the bleeding slow. He was hurt, but he was functioning. Still not worse than the Arishok. He had set some pretty brutal standards for how much punishment he could take in a fight.

“Hardly,” the elf said and ducked back down again as a searing red blast took the top off the rock they were hiding behind. “But I do climb the fastest. The stairs are ruined.”

“I suppose it was too much to hope she would have been killed that easily. Do you think she’ll wait until we catch our reath if we ask nicely?” Hawke forced himself not to look for Anders or Bethany; he couldn’t do anything right now anyway. Focus on the crystal bitch.

“You could try your nicest smile, yes?” Zevran pulled out a smoke bomb, grinning at Hawke.

“How damaged was she?” Hawke popped up as well, trying to pinpoint the now much smaller shape in the chaos of fallen rocks the hall had become. He caught sight of her a moment before she raised opened her mouth impossibly wide, the red blast from before hitting the rock as he ducked back. The rock shattered, sending them scurrying for a new hiding place under the cover of Zevran’s smoke bomb.

“You are a terrible flirt, champion.” The elf had still not lost his look of cool composure.

“I didn’t even have time to smile!” Hawke on the other hand felt like he had been chewed up and spat out. “I think she holds a grudge against me or something.” He dove behind another rock, landing on a soft body.

“I wonder why,” Anders grumbled, rubbing his ribs. 

“Anders, you’re alright!” There weren’t exactly hugs, but that was just because they all had to scramble for cover again. Bethany was there as well, face bloody but determined. 

“Alive is the word you’re looking for, Hawke.” Anders looked like he was on his last reserves, but spared a moment for their injuries all the same. The green glow provoked another blast, this one close enough to make his skin sizzle. They couldn’t keep this up. Not all of them.

“Protect me,” Hawke ordered, looking Anders straight in the eye.

“What did you think I was doing?” the mage asked in frustration.

“Zevran, smoke.” Hawke reached into the bag for the last bomb.

“Oh maker, you’re insane.” Anders groaned as he caught on to what Hawke was planning, but the blue shields glimmered into light all the same.

“What else is new?” Hawke didn’t have time for a kiss, just a grin and then he was over the rocks and running through the smoke. He heard the low hum of power, and dropped to the ground in a roll the moment before it passed over his head. Now he had a few seconds before she recharged. He hoped. He was out of the smoke now, the angular, gleaming crystal woman standing in front of him. She reached for him again, but this time he was ready. He dodged under her arm, she opened her mouth to blast, and he shoved the bomb in there. 

No time for a count.

The bomb went off the moment the blast hit it, fracturing Meredith’s head in a million gleaming pieces. Hawke was tossed away, and this time he landed hard enough to steal the breath from his body. He saw spots, his ears rang but the statue stood still, inert once more. Headless.

“Anyone need healing?” Anders cautiously made his way out on the floor as Wardens were starting to climb through the ruined wall. 

“Wouldn’t say no to it,” Hawke admitted, looking down on his ruined hands. He had all his fingers still, but once the pain broke through the adrenaline he’d not be a happy man. 

“Don’t ever do that again.” Anders sat down behind him, easing his bruised body into his lap as he covered the rogue’s injured hands with his own. The green glow made Hawke sigh in relief.

“Don’t go bringing back any more crazy Templars then.” Hawke looked through half-closed eyes as Zevran limped over to his cousin, the hero of Ferelden tapping the inert statue with his staff, something which got him an elbow in the side from Morrigan.

“I promise.” Anders kissed his scalp lightly, sighing a little. “We’re going to have to collect all the little pieces of her I suppose. So they won’t infect anybody else.”

“Not we. They.” Hawke smiled as he saw Bethany wipe her bloody face, giving them both a wide, triumphant smile. “I’m not moving.”

“I suppose we’ve deserved a rest.” Anders nodded, long arms wrapped around the rogue’s torso. “And not to start worrying about pregnant sisters.”

“Or a vengeful Sebastian,” Hawke added.

“Or an exalted marsh.” Anders’ sigh was heavy. “You know that little island you were talking about back after we escaped Kirkwall? Where we would live as shipwrecked hermits? You wouldn’t happen to have one picked out?”

“I can always improvise.” Hawke leaned back and closed his eyes, content to for the moment to do nothing. “That’s what I do best after all.”

~The End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been a blast writing this, and I’ve learned so much. All the readers, all the comments, you have no idea how much confidence you have given me when it comes to writing things I never would have considered before. Funny, snarky action-adventure is a genre I had never intended to explore, and I owe it all to you. And Bioware. Being a part of the DA fandom has been a brilliant experience, and one I would not trade for anything.
> 
> Thank you everyone that has commented and kudoesed or just plain enjoyed it!


	22. Not a real chapter, but an important question!

This is not a proper chapter.

But I figured putting it here would mean that people who might be interested might read it.

I've been playing DAI. Not finished yet, I still have the final mission left, but playing through the Hawke and Wardens storyline just made me realize that yeah, they went with my headcanons. Like, all of them, up to and including the tarot card motif.

Really... I said I would not do this, but... Bioware, you tossed this thing in my face and how can I not accept that challenge? Seriously? I won't spoil the inquisition plot for people but... THIS IS WHERE I WAS GOING! It's all there on paper and was there a couple of years ago when I first posted this to deviantart.

So the question is, should I write it?

Write the final leg of the journey that I said I never would have time for? Write my end of Hawke's and Anders' story and all the bits they didn't show is in DAI? 

I still don't have time. Not even a little. I have books I am writing. Short stories to publish. A job I need to do to get money. Some deadlines. A move that happens next year, and still...

That bit when Hawke was all fuck this, he's mine... I...

Yeah. I want to.

But my question here to you is: Do you guys want to read it? Will you comment and give kudos and help me keep my spirits up? 'cause there is no chance I will manage to do it without support.

So let me know. Please.

Also, why not pop over and see what I'm currently doing: 

http://www.breakscomic.com/


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